


A Generation's Secrets

by sturner1805



Series: Constant Love [4]
Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 73
Words: 298,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24949411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sturner1805/pseuds/sturner1805
Summary: In the wake of a life-changing event, Georgiana and Elizabeth learn the secrets of the previous generation. A trip to America will reunite the former Bennet sisters, but when they gather at Pemberley, events there will leave their generation with its own secrets to hide.
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy, Georgiana Darcy/Original Male Character(s), Kitty Bennet/Original Male Character(s), Lydia Bennet/George Wickham, Mary Bennet/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Constant Love [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/59138
Comments: 1244
Kudos: 113





	1. Part 1, Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For more info on this piece and my writing, please visit my writing blog: https://sophie-turner-acl.blogspot.com
> 
> As always, feedback and constructive criticism are very much welcome and help me make this a better story. 
> 
> WARNINGS: This story contains far more not only of death, but of the rituals of death and mourning than previous books in this series. I know I am publishing at a time when readers are more likely to have suffered a death of someone close to them, and want to ensure you're aware of this before reading. It is not the only heavy theme within: slavery, spousal and child abuse, traumatic childbirth, and miscarriages/stillbirths are also a part of the story.

**A Generation's Secrets**

**PART ONE**

_January, 1819_

**Chapter 1**

By their nature, children are selfish creatures. They cannot help it, of course, when they come into the world helpless to do anything for themselves, and instead require great amounts of care and assistance merely to survive. They may only learn to sympathise, to think well of others beyond themselves and their nearest relations, after they have grown much older. For boys, the age at which such developments occur may be deemed to be their school years, although if they are ineffectively educated in such matters they may be left to think meanly of those beyond their own family circle until corrected as late as the age of eight and twenty.

Children at the age of four are still some years from any endeavours in such education. It is to be considered an accomplishment that they can put food into their own mouths, use chamber pots with some degree of efficacy, and not commit accidental self-murder when left alone for five minutes altogether; developing sympathy or even some understanding of more adult emotions is not to be expected of them. They live in a world of toys and play and happiness, and cannot understand such adult topics as society, etiquette, or death. In particular, they cannot be expected to observe mourning for a relation they have hardly known, and they have no understanding as to why said mourning should mean the end of such favoured activities as pony-riding.

Thus it was that Elizabeth Darcy's oldest sons were absent from the nursery as she sat with her youngest, Charles, who had proven to be most selfish of all – although not by choice, for neither his birth nor the illnesses that followed had been of his own doing. She was alone, save the child; in addition to the two ponies purchased for their twin boys, James and George, her husband had also determined it best to purchase a third, which could at present be used by George Nichols, the son of their nurse, and also made available for visiting cousins once the ponies were taken to their permanent home in Pemberley's stables. As for their nurses, Mrs. Nichols had gone with her son and charges. for as a widowed farmer's wife, she was able to be of more assistance in holding bridles and other such equestrian matters than most nurses. The under-nurse, Miss Sawyer, meanwhile, had taken on the task of going to the apothecary for more of little Charles's draught.

Elizabeth did not mind the time alone with her youngest son. After those first fraught months of wondering whether he was going to survive the birth – that event comparably easy for her, having been attended by Dr. Whittling here in town and with only one child to bear this time – and then the later bout of whooping cough that had rapidly struck every boy in the nursery but most severely impacted the youngest and weakest in health among them, she had spent great portions of the previous year worried over his survival. All of the children had survived, thank God, but the happiness the Darcys had anticipated from their planned trip to Malta had been replaced by those tense weeks of worrying over all of their sons, their travel postponed and then finally cancelled. There had been some happiness in those weeks they had spent at Rosings before Christmas, yet even that had been short-lived. The only blessing, Elizabeth thought, was that all of her boys were fairly healthy now, her sons and their father. And that was much to feel blessed over, when she had seen it denied another.

Footsteps in the hallway indicated the return of the riding party, the rapid scurrying of feet audible first and then the sounds of Darcy's long stride. James, George, and George all tumbled into the room, gazed at Elizabeth, and bowed. This was a recent teaching of Darcy's to his sons, and George Nichols had rapidly come to mimic them. He made his bow with wide eyes, having had Elizabeth's rank and position as his mother's employer thoroughly instilled in him by Mrs. Nichols. James, meanwhile, made his bow with such an impish, mischievous expression that Elizabeth was again left wondering whether some ancestor of Darcy's had contributed some of this to the boy, for it could not _all_ have come from her. George's bow was marked with his usual solemnity, which was impossibly endearing on the countenance of a boy of four years of age.

They were not fully breached, but they had been dressed in nankeen trousers for their ride and they more often than not succeeded in using the chamber pot within the nursery. They had learned this at an earlier age than most, thankfully; while George Nichols had learned his bows from them, they had learned this convenience from watching him, a boy half a year older than they were; Elizabeth thought it likely they would be fully breached well before most children of their age.

They all possessed great energy, but the riding of a pony could entirely dissipate that energy and thus once the boys had been changed from their trousers, they were laid down for a nap. Sawyer returned while this was occurring, and she aided Elizabeth in giving Charles his draught before he was also laid down for a nap.

During all of this their father watched silently from the edge of the nursery. There had been some worry on his part in being seen in Hyde Park occupied with riding lessons while he was dressed in mourning. He always took them out well before the fashionable hour, however, and Elizabeth doubted that anyone could look at his sombre mien and believe he was not taking mourning seriously.

She approached him and quietly took up his arm to exit the nursery, no words needed between them for her to understand his thoughts. Such things as they had been through were those that could strain any marriage, but instead, mutual comfort amid fear and sadness had strengthened theirs. Elizabeth would never forget all those times he had held her tight in this very hallway, nor that night when he had carried her – nearly hysterical from fear and exhaustion, having stayed up three nights in a row to watch over Charles – down these stairs, laying her down in bed and telling her she must take a laudanum draught, that worry would not save the child but if she kept on like this, she would damage her own health. Such were his words, but after she had awakened and hurried back to the nursery, she had found he had replaced her in vigil over the baby.

Yes, their marriage had grown stronger, yet they had not suffered that ultimate test, thank God. Charles had lived, and his mother had thought the family due to enter happier times, even if they could not travel as they had wished to. She had been wrong, however, and the black hem fluttering about her ancles as the Darcys descended the stairs was one of her innumerable reminders.


	2. Part 1, Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Lady Stanton had become a familiar sight in Cavendish Square, and unlike the long, curious looks she might have received in Hyde Park, here she was among those who, with neighbourly manners, merely gazed at her briefly and tut-tutted at that most tragic of sights, a young lady in widow's weeds, her little daughter also clad in black and walking along beside her, the drape of the mother's black dress showing the ample swell of another child. Here, the gazes were sympathetic; in Hyde Park they might have appeared so, but would then have prompted a conversation about that swell of her belly. Much of society had been in whispered speculation about the child within; it had even appeared on the betting books at White's, whether the baby was to be a boy and therefore born a baronet (an entry that would have made Lady Stanton's brother furious to see it, had he not been in mourning and therefore not attending that club).

Had a true stickler for the rules been involved in the betting, he might have noted that even if the child was a boy, he would not be _born_ a baronet when at present his father was merely considered missing, not dead. Yet while the gossips and the speculators had not been presented with the same evidence Lady Stanton had heard from the Admiralty, her appearance in black was sufficient proof for them. She was going to have a child, and either it would be stillborn, a live girl, or a live boy, and if the latter, he would be a baronet after the Admiralty got around to declaring his father dead. If either of the other two possibilities, the baronetcy would pass by special remainder to his elder brother, David Stanton.

Those who truly knew her, rather than just gazing or staring at her, understood that Lady Stanton also hoped deeply that the child would be a boy and carry on his father's title, although she would have loved a girl just as well, for being her father's daughter. Only Lady Stanton knew that the little girl holding her hand and the child within her belly were the only things preventing her from throwing herself into the Thames.

Caroline, the little girl her mother now lived for, did not understand the concept of mourning any better than her cousins – although she did understand that no matter how many times she asked for her papa, he no longer came – and she grew restless without some time to run and play each day in the square. When they had reached the middle of the square, therefore, Lady Stanton handed the little girl the leathern ball she had been carrying and the child endeavoured to kick it, lost her balance, toppled over, picked herself up, and attempted again. This attempt was successful, and she ran off after it, her mother warning her to stay where she could be seen.

The girl turned and nodded silently, and Georgiana was left alone.

She had not thought it could hurt this much. Conceptually, yes, her heart was broken, but it was the constant physical pain she would not have believed possible before, the unceasing tightness in her chest, the lump of dread that lived in her stomach, dread over facing another day without Matthew. Dread mixed with guilt. because in a way it had all been her fault.

It had been Georgiana who had convinced him to continue in his command of the Caroline, to make one last voyage to the Mediterranean. They had been happy there – exceedingly happy, largely based in Malta but also venturing down the Italian coast for some months – but Georgiana would have given all of that up, if she could go back and prevent the Stantons from ever going there, could keep them all safely ensconced in the English countryside at Stanton Hall. For if they had not ever _gone_ , they would not have _returned_ , and Matthew would still be with her.

The blame might have been laid in other quarters, of course. If Admiral Bourchier had not asked Matthew to sail back to England in consort with a sloop of war, HMS Icarus, so that the sloop could be united with her new commander following the death of the previous one, Matthew would have remained safely on board HMS Caroline. If Lieutenant Coombs had proven able to temporarily command the Icarus himself, rather than needing the supervision of the Caroline's first lieutenant, Rigby, and then when Coombs had refused to listen to Rigby, of Captain Stanton himself, Matthew would never have kissed his wife goodbye and allowed himself to be lowered into the waiting boat, providing her with what had proved to be her last glimpse of him. If the storm had not struck that night, separating two ships that were never to reunite.

Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, Georgiana could still feel his hand on her cheek. _No, dearest, I shall be back in a few days, if that. Stay here with little Caroline, and I will return as soon as I've set things to rights on the Icarus._ There was one more quarter in which the blame could be laid, of course – that of the man who had uttered those words. Yet this Georgiana had not allowed herself to consider. Whatever had happened, whatever had caused Matthew to turn the ship back towards the Mediterranean, she knew he must have been doing his utmost to save it, to preserve his own life and that of his ship so he could return to his family.

Georgiana's eyes filled with tears and she blinked them away. It had only been ten days, since Lord Melville had called to tell her the ultimate fate of the ship, and perhaps this was why the pain was still so raw, so new. Before then, although the Caroline had returned to Portsmouth alone, there had always been the hope that the Icarus would still rendezvous with her there, or that the smaller ship might have been damaged by the storm and put into a smaller, more convenient port. Ten days ago, Lord Melville had destroyed her hopes: grounded and broken up, Bay of Cadiz, no survivors. He had put it more gently, of course, but that was all she had truly heard. Then the pain had set in, the shattering, horrific pain.

"Caroline, don't go so far!" Georgiana called out, but found the child ignoring her, the leathern ball forgotten, for she had espied another child of about her size entering the square.

Georgiana strode after her as quickly as she could, given she was two months shy of possibly bearing Matthew's heir, and was glad that the neighbourhood was such that she should have no qualms about whomever her daughter was about to meet. By the time she reached the children, they were conversing enthusiastically – albeit mostly in childish gibberish rather than English – and seemed inclined to become fast friends. Looking about for the adult that belonged to this new friend of Caroline's, Georgiana started.

"Oh – Lord Alfred!"

He seemed as surprised to see her as she was him, and took a moment to bow before he said, "Lady Stanton, it – actually it is Lord Bolton, now. I lost my father last year."

"I apologise, I had not heard," she replied. "I am very sorry for your loss."

"Yes, I understand you have been out of the country for some time. And I must say I am very sorry for your loss, as well."

By now, the children had run in that stumbling manner of two-year-olds until they had reached the leathern ball, and they were beginning – none too successfully – to kick it back and forth to each other. Success was not necessary for enjoyment, however, and it was the first time Georgiana had heard her daughter laugh in such a manner since they had returned to England.

"My daughter, Amelia," Lord Bolton said, shakily. "We – we also lost her mother last year."

He was dressed in mourning, but as everyone around Georgiana had been dressed in mourning of late, she had not noticed. "I am very sorry to hear that," she said, but her throat tightened, and she did not trust herself to say more.

Lord Bolton – Lord Alfred Mallory, then – had once jilted her for the woman he now mourned, abandoning his suit of Georgiana once the death of his brother had made him the heir apparent to the dukedom he now held. Georgiana could not hold these past actions against him, however. He had truly loved his Amelia – only lack of fortune had prevented their being wed – but moreover, it had been this abandonment that had made her realise it was Matthew who held her heart. Then, and now, and always.

She bit her lip until the pain was sufficient to halt her tears. "That is Caroline, my daughter."

"I – I know," he said. "I fear you have been much in the papers."

"Do you live near here?" Georgiana asked. She did not like to think of herself as the object of gossip, still less her little girl.

"Yes, that house just over there." He motioned towards a large town house on the opposite side of the square from that of Georgiana's uncle, which had been her residence since she had returned to town.

They were silent for a while, watching as Amelia, giggling, managed to more or less successfully kick the ball to Caroline, and that child to make a reasonable return.

"I suppose you might be wondering why a man would take his daughter here, rather than leave it to her nurse, but I enjoy my time with her. She is all I have left of her mother."

"I understand completely," Georgiana replied, although in her case even her nurse was a nominal position; Rebecca McClare, the wife of a seaman on the Caroline, had helped look after the child since she was born and had remained in the Stantons's employ, even though she did not have the usual qualifications of a nurse. Georgiana had always preferred to spend a goodly amount of time with her daughter, and the loss of the child's father had only strengthened this preference.

"Yes, of course you do, better than anyone else, I think. I am – I am glad they met. Amelia has few cousins, and it is good to have a child of her age and station to play with. I hope we may all meet again here in the future."

Not quite of her station, Georgiana thought, for Amelia was by rights Lady Amelia even at her young age, but she understood what he meant, and her own thoughts aligned with his. She was glad of anything that could make Caroline happy at such a time, and she echoed his wishes that they should all meet again.

* * *

As often happens for children of their age, Caroline and Amelia played together until well past the point where they should have and each child, thoroughly exhausted, fell into tantrums. Amelia's was louder, an impressive screech followed by sobbing that saw her carried off by her apologetic father, but Caroline's was equally concerning to her mother, a quiet, intensive weeping with her head laid against her mother's shoulder. Still more concerning was what she said as they ascended the stairs to Lord Stretford's house, which was, "Papa? I want papa," uttered in the hideous sobs of a half-orphaned child. Mrs. McClare was there to take her from her mother's arms, endeavouring to soothe the child as she took her up to the nursery, and leaving Caroline's mother to her own weeping in the drawing-room.

How long she sat, bent over her handkerchief on the sofa there, she did not know, but the interruption to her grief came eventually from the butler, who said, loudly – as though he might have said it at least once before without the lady's having heard him – that there was a caller for her, wishing to give condolences.

"Who is it?" Georgiana asked, sniffling.

"A Mrs. Annesley, ma'am," he said.

When he had first said there was a caller, Georgiana would have thought that only those bearing the name of Darcy or Fitzwilliam to be those she would have agreed to see in her present state. She was immediately grateful to add the name Annesley to that list, however.

"P – please send her in," she choked out.

Almost as though no time had passed since she had looked after her former charge, Mrs. Annesley walked into the drawing-room, saw the state of Lady Stanton, and proceeded to envelop that lady in her embrace. Georgiana, who had endeavoured to be as stoic as was expected of her in the course of the past ten days, quickly succumbed to such comforts.

"I'm sorry," she said, after some minutes of weeping, attempting to wipe at the tears that covered her face. "I'll be better – I just need a moment."

"It's fine, my dear. Let it all out. No one should expect a young lady who has been through what you've been through to bear it without tears, you poor thing."

Thus relinquished from such expectations, Georgiana proceeded to cry on the shoulder of her former companion in a hideously sloppy and very cathartic manner, finally recovering enough to pass her handkerchief under her eyes and say, "I'm glad you've come – it is so good to see you again, I just wish it was under different circumstances."

"I wish the same, Lady Stanton, I truly do. You always had such a kind heart – I never wished it to be wounded by such tragedy."

Georgiana caught a sob in her handkerchief, prompted largely by such solicitousness, and said, "No one ever expects to experience such tragedy, I think, and yet it happens. For my own part I find it hardest to bear when Caroline asks for him. You know how young I was when I lost my mother and then my father, but she is so much younger – she will not remember _anything_ of him, except perhaps that he was gone when she asked for him."

"You must not think that, Lady Stanton. She will know him as you keep him alive for her. I know your father was heartbroken about your mother, as I am sure you are about Captain Stanton, but you're strong, stronger than you know, and I think when the time comes you'll be able to tell her about a brave, excellent man who was her father. And I expect you wouldn't be so heartbroken over losing him, if he didn't love that little girl with all his heart – and you will tell her that, too."

Another embrace for her former charge followed this, and Georgiana, mere months from becoming a mother twice over, was still young enough to submit willingly to the motherly embrace of Mrs. Annesley. That lady stayed far beyond what was polite, waiting until Georgiana requested they be served with tea and kept down one soothing cupful before Mrs. Annesley would take her leave.

"Thank you," Georgiana murmured. "It is so good to see you again, even under the current circumstances. I – I know I have no right to ask it of you, but you would be welcome to call again if Lord Epworth and his daughter can spare you."

Mrs. Annesley's countenance took on an odd cast for a moment, but then she said, "Of course. I will call again as soon as I'm able."

Georgiana said her thanks and stayed seated on the sofa as her old companion descended the stairs outside. Georgiana was expecting that a carriage should come around from Lord Stretford's mews or wherever else it had been sent during Mrs. Annesley's call, but instead she found a hackney carriage coming around to stop in front of the house, and Mrs. Annesley showing every sign of getting in. Georgiana rushed out of the house and halted before the steps outside, crying out, "Mrs. Annesley, I did not realise Lord Epworth's carriage had not been made available to you. Please, give us a few moments and we will have one of Lord Stretford's brought around."

"Lady Stanton, 'tis nothing," Mrs. Annesley said, stepping closer to Georgiana. "I – I left Lord Epworth's employ, but I am perfectly capable of taking a hack to my lodgings."

Capable she might have been, but allowed to she was not, for Georgiana told the footman that the hackney was not necessary, handing him two shillings: one for the driver's trouble and one for his own.

"I think you must come inside, Mrs. Annesley," said Georgiana, with more strength than she would have thought she could muster at such a time. "I believe there are things we should discuss."

They returned to the drawing-room, were seated, and Georgiana asked, "What happened, that caused you to leave Lord Epworth's employ?"

"I don't wish to say, my lady."

It wounded Georgiana, that her former companion should be so reticent, and yet as she suspected there were reasons for such reticence, Georgiana did not hold it against her: "I have never known _you_ to act inappropriately, and thus I must presume it was either your employer or his daughter who did so."

Mrs. Annesley shook her head, her countenance marked with pain. "In this case, it must be _me_ who is considered to have acted inappropriately. It is I, who fell in love with my charge's father. It is I, who fell in love with my employer."

"Oh – oh no!" cried Georgiana, already aware of what such a situation should prompt. "Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. You are certain he did not return your affections?"

"He – he did. That is why I had to leave. Were it merely my own unrequited love, I could have managed the situation, but once I understood my affections were returned, I knew I could not stay."

"Lord Epworth is a widower, is he not? Was there ever any chance of – "

"Of marrying his daughter's companion? No. I would hardly have been of high enough birth for him to consider me even without my – my needing employment, in order to live."

Georgiana gazed with concern at Mrs. Annesley. Since Lord Epworth's daughter had not yet married, it would be more difficult for Mrs. Annesley to find a new position; people would wonder what had caused this break in her employment, even if Lord Epworth gave her a good character. Unless – unless it was thought that she had left to help her former charge during her mourning. Society would find that not only reasonable, but estimable.

"Stay," said Georgiana, impulsively. "Stay here with me, under whatever terms you were on with Lord Epworth, or whatever you were under before, with my brother – whichever is better."

"Lady Stanton, I did not come here to ask for a position. I just wished to express my condolences."

"Please – I do not ask out of charity. It would be very helpful to me to have you with me again as I go through this. I would never have thought to ask you to leave your current employer, but since you are available, I would be grateful to have you here."

The look of relief that overtook Mrs. Annesley's countenance told Georgiana she had been worried about the same things Georgiana had considered "Very well, if you do truly wish to have me here, I'd be grateful to you, Lady Stanton."

"I would, but I think now you must call me Georgiana. Our stations are different – we are both widows, and I will not need you as a chaperone, just as a friend."

"I shall, then, although it may take some getting used to, and of course you must call me Judith."

* * *

Georgiana realised only after she had sent Mrs. Annesley off in one of Lord Stretford's carriages that she ought to have discussed this with him, before she brought a person unknown to him to live under his roof. Yet when she knocked on the door to his study, she did so with a bit of defiance: if he did not want Mrs. Annesley living under his roof, she would remove her family to Curzon Street, where they would certainly be welcome.

She was invited to come in and found Lord Stretford seated as he usually was, behind a pile of correspondence at his desk. It was still strange to think of him as Lord Stretford, when he had been Lord Anglesey for most of the time she had known him, but he had been made the Marquess of Stretford last year. Precisely what he had done to warrant the new title was unknown to Georgiana, but she had some understanding that he had been more involved in the negotiations with the Americans over the 49th parallel as the boundary between their country and Canada than had been publicly shared, and she suspected there were a great many things before that which had been unknown to most, and yet appreciated by Whitehall. It mattered little in how she addressed him – at least in private – for he had insisted she call him uncle William ever since he had retrieved his worried, heartsore niece from Portsmouth.

"Ah, Georgiana, I am glad you came in – I have something for you," he said, inviting her to sit in one of the chairs facing the desk. He reached across the desk to hand her a little object wrapped in silk. "This is the original – I wanted to have a copy made before I gave it to you. He had it done for me before he took command of the Caroline, in the year '09."

With trembling hands, Georgiana unwrapped the silk from the object and found it to be a miniature of Matthew. He looked younger than when she had known him, but it was still _him_ , and as Georgiana had not thought there was any portrait of him in existence, she found herself weeping yet again as she shakily said her thank you to Lord Stretford.

"I wish there was more than that – I should have made him have a portrait done after the Polonais, but at least it is something."

"You – you said you had a copy done? I would not want to deprive you of it."

"I did, but even if I had not, it belongs with you," he said. "You were his wife."

She nodded. "I – I had something I wanted to tell you. I have asked my former companion, Mrs. Annesley, to return to her post with me, and she has agreed to do so."

"I think that a very good idea," he said. "I'll ask Mrs. Morton to have a room prepared for her."

"Thank you," Georgiana said, reminded yet again of why she continued to stay here, rather than Curzon Street. Lord Stretford had been so kind, so paternal towards her, and he had helped her navigate the most difficult time of her life. In a way, it was like having a father again. More important, however, was that he grieved Matthew for the man that had been lost. Almost everyone else had of course cared about Matthew, but they seemed more concerned about how his death had impacted _her_. But she, Lord Stretford, and David Stanton – now returning to his parish at Wincham, having stayed as long as he could to be of assistance – they were the people who felt that pure pain of Matthew's being gone from the world, independent of its effect on her.

As for Matthew's father, Richard Stanton, Georgiana had no expectations that they would hear anything from him. Matthew and Georgiana had cut his acquaintance, and so whatever he felt over his son's death – whether he considered it to be good riddance or had regrets over his treatment of Matthew – would never be told.

"Will your companion be dining with us?" Lord Anglesey asked.

"I believe she shall return in time. She has just gone to collect her possessions."

He nodded. "It is nearly four – do you intend to rest before dinner?"

Georgiana told him she did, and he offered to take her up. Although at this point in her pregnancy she rarely felt lightheaded, they still took particular caution, for Georgiana had once fallen down a staircase and lost the baby she had been carrying. When it had happened, it had been heart-breaking for her and Matthew; for it to happen now would be an unmitigated tragedy. They passed through the drawing-room to reach the stairs, and as they did so Lord Stretford glanced at the pianoforte there and said, "You know, if you do wish to practise the pianoforte, no-one here would judge you for it. I believe playing might be a comfort for you."

"No," said Georgiana. "I am sorry, but no, I will not play the pianoforte again."

She made no effort to further explain herself, but she thought he understood: she would not play the pianoforte when she could never again expect to hear the sound of a cello beside her.


	3. Part 1, Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Mary Stanton walked quietly along the lane that led from the Thurstons's cottage into Wincham village. Mrs. Thurston had given birth less than a fortnight ago, and blessing the child was the last thing David had done before rushing off to town. The family was one of the poorest in the parish, and Mary had been bringing them food every day to ease their burdens.

It felt good to help those like the Thurstons, but Mary's thoughts were on her own family. When David had left, she had thought it best that one of them remain in the parish, one more familiar with its inhabitants than the neighbouring vicar, Mr. Colby, and the curate, Mr. Goodson. Soon after David had left, however, she had found herself wishing she had gone with him, to be of comfort to the woman who was in a way her sister twice over, connected to her first by Elizabeth's marriage to Mr. Darcy, and then by Mary's marriage to David, which had made them formally sisters-in-law. Mary might have attempted to follow David, but she did not like the thought of traveling all that way by herself, and of course there was their daughter Marianne to consider.

David was returning now, anyway, and by his last letter Mary thought she might expect him tomorrow or possibly even that day, depending on what stagecoach he had found a place on. So her letter of condolence would have to be enough, and David had indicated Georgiana was well-supported by Lord Stretford and her Darcy relations. Mary was glad Georgiana had such people in her life. Mary was also exceedingly glad her own husband's occupation was far less dangerous than the one his brother had chosen. Perhaps it was wrong to think of such things, but it was difficult to keep them from her mind.

Not that it was impossible that any husband or wife could be taken from this world; David had been a widower himself, having lost his first wife to illness. Impulsively, Mary decided to cut through the graveyard of St. Mary Magdalene, the Wincham parish church. There, she knew, was the grave titled "Isabel Elinor Stanton 1789 – 1812," but she had never allowed herself to pause beside it, and she did so today. Widows and widowers could not but be a strong topic on her mind of late, but upon sighting the gravestone, it was poor Isabel she thought of instead. Poor Isabel, buried here alone, the husband she had surely loved now remarried, with a new family. Poor Isabel, whose fortune of eight thousand pounds would eventually be divided amongst the children of another woman, something Mary felt guilty over, even if the fortune had become David's upon his first marriage.

At least with Isabel, there had been a body, a tangible thing to mourn over and to bury. Poor Georgiana did not even have this comfort. Would her sister ever recover, remarry, find happiness again with another? Mary did not know, and it was much too early to be thinking of such things. Yet again, though, it was difficult to keep them from her mind.

"I'm sorry," murmured Mary to the gravestone. "But I know you are in a better place now, and I think you would want him to be happy. He is – truly he is. We have a daughter and we love her very much."

Then Mary heard that tell-tale thundering sound – the Regulator was coming through the village – and she hastened out of the graveyard to see if her husband was within the stagecoach. He was; she found him just stepping out into the yard at the Red Lion. They did not embrace; they were always very cautious of their position within the parish and the propriety they ought to demonstrate, but he clasped her hand tightly and Mary saw by his countenance that he was grateful to be home.

"Do you mind if I eat a little here?" he asked. "I do not want to put them out at home, but I am rather hungry. They pulled the old hot soup trick, at the Swan in Birmingham."

"I hate such trickery!" cried Mary, angry that so many innkeepers seemed to think it acceptable to serve scalding hot soup fifteen minutes into the twenty minutes most fast stagecoaches allotted for dinner, the unconsumed soup returned to the pot as soon as the coach drove off. "How could anyone be so dishonest as to cheat their passengers in such a manner? And no, of course I do not mind, although I am sure Cook could rouse up some cold meat and bread if you wish it."

"I think I'd rather have something hot – appropriately hot," he amended. He looked tired, Mary realised, which was perhaps to be expected. Even riding on the inside of a stagecoach all that way must have been wearying, without what had come before it. Lord Stretford had offered his post-chaise for David's use, and Mary wished he had taken the offer, although she knew he had wished to leave it available in case Lord Stretford found it needed by his niece-in-law.

They passed a serving girl, Flora Wright, one of the blacksmith's daughters, with a trayful of sandwiches in her hands. Mary turned and watched as Flora sold the entire contents of the tray to the grateful passengers of the Regulator. She felt proud at that moment – dishonesty might be the way of other inns across the country, but it was not the way of Wincham. Her pride was echoed in the countenance of Mr. Johnson, the innkeeper, as he welcomed them into the dining-room.

"Don't need ye to tell me them's still runnin' their tricks down Birming'm, Rever'nd," he said. "Ne'er fails but there's a coach nigh full of hungry folks, glad of a samm'ich they know I can't take back from 'em. I won't say I don't profit from it, for I do, but it's an honest profit, not like what's done by them Brummies."

"You may count me among your hungry passengers," said David, "although I was hoping for something hot to eat."

"Aye, right, a'course you are, and a'course I got it – nice mutton stew we got warmin' in the kitchen. Warmin', not too hot'a be ate, mind ye. Just have yerselves a seat right there and Flora'll bring it out. Mrs. Stanton, d'ye want some, too?"

Mary had not intended to eat but found herself agreeing, mostly to reward Mr. Johnson for running an honest inn. They seated themselves as indicated, at a table within the dining-room – if they had been travelling they might have requested a private parlour, but here it was important to dine among those of the parish currently giving the inn their custom.

It was still private enough for conversation, once Flora had brought out mutton stew, fresh bread, and small beer for two, although Mary allowed David some minutes of voracious eating so he could take the edge off his hunger before she spoke.

"How is Georgiana?" she asked.

"She is as well as can be hoped for, considering," he replied. "The first days, though are – are – it doesn't entirely set in, that it's happened. It has hardly set in for me. I always knew, of course, that there was a chance we would lose Matthew to such a dangerous profession, but it seemed so much less likely once the peace came."

"It is the profession he wanted, though. It was his choice, to join the navy. It would have been easier for him to become a clergyman, as you and Jacob have done."

"No, Mary, I fear I must correct you there – he was pushed into it by our father. Joining the navy was the only way for him to get out of the parsonage."

David rarely spoke of his childhood, and Mary was beginning to get a better sense of why. Tentatively, she asked, "How did you manage to stay? And Jacob?"

"I went away to school, thankfully. But it was never as bad for Jacob and I as it was for Matthew. I do not know why, but my father was set against him from a very young age – he could never do anything right, in my father's eyes."

"That is awful – poor Matthew," Mary said, and then frowned, for unfortunately they could not be done on the subject of his father. "He – our father – he sent us a letter, with advice on how to raise Marianne. It was addressed to both of us; I opened it while you were gone."

He sighed. "I hope you did not pay it any mind. I do not wish to raise our children in his manner."

Mary nodded. "I almost didn't read it, but I am glad I did. It also contained the news that Jacob is to be married. A Miss Clacton. They will wed by common licence next week."

"That is rather sudden," David said, contemplatively. "Oh – oh, how I hope he did not do so just to father a son."

"Do you think he _would_ – how awful!" exclaimed Mary.

"Perhaps I am being unfair to him, but he ought to be in mourning, not rushing to be wed. And perhaps it is the lady who finds being mother to a baronet desirable."

"Even if that is so, he is still marrying such a woman. And she will not get what she desires," said Mary, angrily. "If Georgiana does not have a boy, you and I will have as many children as it takes to ensure it never passes to Jacob and this Miss Clacton. I won't stop at five daughters, as my parents did."

"How I hope Georgiana's child is a boy," he said. "I do not want the baronetcy – not if it is to receive it in this way. I hate that there is so much speculation over it. Matthew would not have wanted it, particularly the burden it has put upon his wife."

"But I would have thought she wanted it as much as any of us, to have his baronetcy pass to their child."

"Yes, she does, and that is what worries me. You know how difficult her labour was, with Caroline. I pray it will be easier with a second child, but if it is not and it ends in disappointment, I fear she will be inclined to follow Matthew."


	4. Part 1, Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Elizabeth had known a storm was brewing inside her husband for some time, and she was glad that when it finally broke it was during breakfast, when only a footman was witness to what she had expected. Lord Stretford had won the _race_ , if it could be called that, to reach Georgiana in Portsmouth, when the Caroline had arrived without the Icarus – and Matthew – in consort, and their sister had sent out express letters to those most likely to aid her in that most distressing time.

David Stanton had been at Wincham, the Darcys in Kent, and Lord Stretford in London. The latter had set out upon receiving the letter and had arrived early the next morning. By the time the Darcys had arrived two days later, Georgiana was already well ensconced in her uncle-in-law's custody, and she had shown no desire to leave it. This could not but irritate Darcy, that his closest blood relation had chosen the protection of another over him, and this irritation was certainly increased when Georgiana had chosen to go to town with Lord Stretford and live in his house there, rather than with the Darcys.

Elizabeth had asked a simple question at breakfast: when he wished to call at Cavendish Square. Simple, but sufficient to cause those last threads of his temper to snap, for he had turned rather red in his countenance and said, "We should not have to call at Cavendish Square. Georgiana should be _here_ , with us. I am glad Lord Stretford was there to aid her in those first days, but we are her closest relations!"

With this, Elizabeth had dismissed poor Henry, who had looked rather shocked over his employer's outburst. Once he had left, she said, softly, "Lord Stretford is a widower."

"I am aware of that." He ought to have been clever enough to work it out, but sometimes his temper was like a dam to his logic, halting its flow. This was most certainly one of those times.

"Darcy, if you had just lost me and you had your choice of residing with Andrew Fitzwilliam or Edward Fitzwilliam, who would you choose? Would you stay with Edward, whose cannot look at his wife without showing his adoration of her, or Andrew, who has suffered the loss of his wife? Would you rather be faced with a loving, married couple every moment of your existence, or live with someone who knew the same loss as you?"

"Oh, Elizabeth, do not make me contemplate such a thing, but you are right – of course you are right," he said.

* * *

Georgiana cradled the miniature in her hand, gazing at the likeness of a young man she had never known. By her best calculations, she had been twelve, when the miniature had been taken, twelve and still reeling from the death of her father, twelve and still some years from George Wickham's trickery. She had been twelve years old, and in London a young commander named Matthew Stanton had been summoned to the Admiralty, and informed of his elevation to the rank of Post Captain, of his assignment to the frigate HMS Caroline, the frigate his daughter would eventually be named after. While in London, that young man had seen a miniature artist, had been painted by that man, and had given the result over to his uncle, the man who had always supported him, who had done so much to further his career.

She was very nearly the same age now, that he had been when he had sat for this miniature. Had he ever thought, then, that he should have such a family? Had he ever considered that he might fall in love and marry? It was very likely he had not; a wife had not been on his mind, even when he had met Georgiana. Love had come first, and then marriage, but the young man in the miniature would have been happy over his promotion and focused upon his career. The career he had attempted to end, until his wife had convinced him otherwise.

Georgiana laid the miniature down on the dressing-table as Moll Taylor entered the room, a day dress of Indian muslin, dyed black, draped over her arm. Moll had matured in the time she had been Georgiana's maid – even more so since she had been married – but such subdued manners as she now showed had begun with the news of Matthew's death. In a way, Georgiana missed Moll's old happy chatter, for it would have been nice to have a distraction from her grief. Instead of a distraction, she was quickly and quietly aided into the black dress, finished by a simple necklace with an anchor pendant – a gift from Matthew, when they had first been married. Georgiana had finer jewellery, some left to her by her mother, and other pieces that had been gifts from her father and brother, but it was this necklace she wore every day, supplanted only for dinner by the black pearls Matthew had given her one night aboard the Caroline, a moment she now thought on with exquisitely painful nostalgia.

"Thank you, Moll, that will be all," Georgiana said.

"Yes, milady." Moll made her curtsey, gave one last sympathetic glance to her mistress, and left the room.

Lord Stretford and Mrs. Annesley had preceded her to breakfast, and they each inquired after her health – not, thankfully, asking how she had slept, for a woman so far along in a pregnancy as Georgiana was could hardly sleep well, even if she had not been recently widowed. Then Lord Stretford aided her into a chair and made her a plate from the sideboard; he had learned her preferences by now, although in truth Georgiana cared little about what she ate. She had no appetite and ate merely because she had to, because her baby needed her to do so.

Georgiana applied herself to the food before her, and Mrs. Annesley and Lord Stretford picked their newspapers back up, reading silently until Mrs. Annesley asked, "Is Jacob Stanton a relation of yours?"

"He is Matthew's younger brother," said Georgiana. "Why is he in the papers?"

"Because he is to be wed," said Lord Stretford. "I am sorry – I had the news yesterday but was not sure whether I should tell you."

"How could he? He ought to be in mourning!" cried Georgiana. "My God – it's for the baronetcy, isn't it? If he has a son and Mrs. Stanton and I have only daughters, it will pass through his children. I do not want that – can something be done, can the special remainder be altered?"

"I fear it cannot," said Lord Stretford. "The special remainder was established when Matthew was awarded the baronetcy – it cannot be changed now."

"The most important thing that can be done is for you to look after your health," said Mrs. Annesley. "I am sorry I mentioned his marriage, Georgiana – I have upset you."

"'Tis not your fault, Judith," Georgiana said, forcing herself to follow Mrs. Annesley's advice and continue eating for the sake of her baby, although she remained angry.

* * *

Darcy took the children for their ride in Hyde Park, and this seemed to put him in a better frame of mind once he had returned and changed, to go with his wife to call at Lord Stretford's house. The knocker was off the door, a sign that only family would be received, and they were shown in by Lord Streford's butler, there to find a surprise in the drawing-room.

"Mrs. Annesley!" exclaimed Darcy, too shocked to make his bow until that lady had risen and curtseyed to her former employer.

"Mrs. Annesley has been kind to come and stay with me, to help me," said Georgiana.

Elizabeth knew in an instant that her husband was thinking _they_ – the Darcys – would have been the ones to help her, if she had come to live with them at Curzon Street, and before he could say anything to this effect, she clasped his hand as tightly as she could. In truth, she found it surprising that Mrs. Annesley had been willing to leave her existing position, but was glad that someone who had already helped Georgiana through another difficult time in her life would be her constant companion now.

The Darcys were seated, and the party descended into silence. This was the difficulty of the present situation; they wished to be here in support of Georgiana, but the usual topics discussed in London drawing-rooms seemed frivolous. As well, Georgiana seemed different, almost perturbed, rather than the shock and grief that had formed her countenance in previous visits. The reason for this was explained when Georgiana finally said, "Matthew's brother, Jacob, is apparently to be wed next week."

"Next week? Good God!" said Darcy.

This, at least, seemed to unite the siblings in anger over Jacob Stanton's actions, which they discussed until the topic had exhausted itself, further aggravating Georgiana. The only thing that seemed to soothe her spirits was when her nurse brought little Caroline down, the child running across the room and clambering up onto the sofa beside her mother, where she sought to snuggle, recalling Georgiana to a more maternal disposition.

"Park?" asked the child. "Go park?"

"No, my dear, your aunt and uncle are here to visit, and anyway, it is raining. Perhaps tomorrow."

The little girl nodded solemnly and resumed her snuggle. Elizabeth, used to the boisterous actions of an older pair of twin boys, found the child sweetly adorable in this moment, although she presumed Caroline was still capable of the sorts of tantrums children her age could get up to when suitably provoked. She adored all three of her boys, of course, but dearly hoped her next would be a girl.

"Do you often go to the park with her?" asked Elizabeth.

"Just to the square – that is what she calls the park. We do not seem to be too much a focus for the gossips, there."

"I wonder if – I wonder if you and Caroline – and Mrs. Annesley, of course – might like to come up to Pemberley for some weeks," Darcy said. "I know you will need to return to town for Dr. Whittling to attend your birth, but perhaps some time away from town and gossips would be beneficial, and it would allow Caroline to spend more time with her cousins."

Elizabeth suspected this to have been a sudden idea, but knowing her husband it was also possible he had been mulling this over for some time and had just found his opening to present it. He had not discussed it with her beforehand, but she would not hold that against him; he was already struggling enough where his sister was concerned, without his wife turning fussy over a sudden invitation. And it _was_ a good idea, presuming Georgiana was comfortable travelling all that way in her present state. Getting out to the countryside might be beneficial for her healing, but Elizabeth did not think Georgiana would wish to return to Stanton Hall without the man who had given that house its name.

"I – I think that might be good for us," said Georgiana, softly. "May I think on it?"

"Of course," said Darcy.

The Darcys took their leave not long after this, Mr. Darcy – as she had expected he would – apologising to his wife for the sudden invitation to Pemberley. She – as she had planned – pronounced it to be a very good idea, and said she hoped Georgiana would accept.

* * *

Georgiana mulled over her brother's invitation in the hours following the Darcys's departure. She did so largely in Caroline's company, returning her daughter to the nursery and staying there with her. Mrs. Annesley had asked for permission to go out and be fitted for a new dress or two, for she thought if Georgiana was dressed in mourning, she ought to do so as well, and those dresses she had worn while mourning the queen and Princess Charlotte would not be sufficient for an entire year. Georgiana had sent her off with Moll so her maid could assist her and ensure the dresses were billed to Lady Stanton's account.

By the time Georgiana had reached her decision, it was time for Caroline's nap, and so she put her daughter to bed, left her to the care of Mrs. McClare, and took the arm of her footman, Bowden, to go down the stairs to Lord Stretford's study. She knocked, was bade to enter, and seated herself in the same chair she had used the day before.

"I – I have made my decision about going to Pemberley," she said. "I intend to do so, whenever my brother and sister are ready to travel."

Lord Stretford nodded. "I had thought you would. Everything is as settled here as it can be, so far as matters of business go. I am the executor of Matthew's will, but that will not come into effect until he is formally declared dead, and it may be some time before that happens. Thank God Matthew thought to give you power of attorney over your finances."

"He was always very thoughtful about such things," whispered Georgiana.

"Yes, he was," Lord Stretford said. "I think the countryside will be a better place for you at such a time. Will you ever return to Stanton Hall?"

"I do not think I can. It was the home we were meant to have together, and it is no longer of importance for me to live near Portsmouth. I think I will ask my brother if he will allow me to lease Fitzwilliam House."

"I cannot claim a deep acquaintance with your brother, but I suspect he will allow you to live there, but not to lease it," Lord Stretford said. "If you do choose to let Stanton Hall, let me know. I can help manage finding a suitable tenant from here."

"I will, thank you," she said, and then continued, in a voice tremulous with tears. "I cannot thank you enough for all of your assistance in this time. I do not know how I would have made it through without you."

"It is the least I could do for you – and for Matthew. I know you must return to town before you are due to give birth, and you may wish to stay with your brother then, but you must know you are _always_ welcome here," he said, his own voice sounding thicker than was usual. He rose abruptly from his chair and walked the few steps to the window behind him. "I shall be out of mourning by then, which I regret. A month is all that is appropriate, for a nephew."

After some time, he turned back towards Georgiana, and she was startled to see the depth of the grief on his face. She had known he cared for Matthew and was pained by his disappearance and then death, but in these weeks it seemed he had kept it contained, had focused on comforting and assisting his widow.

"A month is all I am to be allowed when it should be six, at least, if not a twelvemonth – to mourn my son."

Georgiana's breath caught in her throat, and the shock seemed to wash over her in waves of dizziness. She put a protective hand on her belly and willed herself to be calm for the baby's sake. She could not lose this baby. There would never be another.

"I am sorry – I have shocked you and yet relieved myself, that there should be more than two people living who know of it," Lord Stretford said.

"But – how?" It seemed a foolish way to ask, as soon as she had said it – of course it had been in the only way possible – but Georgiana was too shocked to manage anything more articulate.

Lord Stretford took no notice of the awkwardness of her question. He seated himself again and said, "When I was young, I fell madly in love with a young woman from our neighbourhood, Marianne Parker. She was of the gentry and had a small but reasonable dowry, and if I had been of your generation, I believe I would have asked for her hand with nary a second thought. But while things were changing back then, they changed more slowly in my family. We had been steadily building our power since before the days of Good Queen Bess and it was expected that as the first son, I would marry a woman of the nobility, and make a powerful connexion."

Georgiana's spirits had calmed somewhat, but she felt her stomach sink when he mentioned the name Marianne, for that had been Matthew's mother's name. Yet how else could it have been, if Lord Stretford was truly his father?

"I did marry as expected, an Osborne, and Charlotte and I made as good a marriage as we could. It might have been better, had I been able to forget Marianne. As you might have presumed, I could not, because she was brought into my family. To this day, I do not know why Richard determined to offer for her – he and I had never got along, so it may have been to spite me, or he may have had his own sort of love for her, for Marianne was a tremendously handsome woman. On her part, I believe she must have been fooled – or fooled herself – into believing the two of us were more similar than we were.

"Richard was not so bad then as he is now, but even then, he was generally not a pleasant husband, and I watched poor Marianne sink into misery. When David was born, she devoted herself to her child, and this was her main source of happiness."

Georgiana felt a little kinship to Matthew's mother at this statement, for she knew Caroline – and her unborn child, if she could bring it to bear – would be such for her. But Georgiana was a widow who had loved her husband with all her heart, and Marianne had been married to that horrid man.

"Things changed for me, as well," Lord Stretford said. "My father died, and I succeeded him in the title, moving from the Commons to the Lords. Charlotte had George and then another son, William, who did not survive a year. The loss hit her hard, and when she took ill, she did not fight as she might otherwise have. And thus I was left a widower, knowing the woman I still loved deeply was locked in matrimony to my brother.

"In those days I had a house party at Rutherford every summer, and Richard and Marianne always attended. It was the summer of '77, when Richard felt his parish duties required him to linger, but he sent his wife and son on ahead of him. Marianne encouraged him in this, for David and George were of an age to play together, and she was eager to get her son settled into the nursery."

Lord Stretford rose again, this time to go and pour himself a brandy, and then returned.

"I expect you know what happened next. Neither of us had set aside our feelings for each other and we spent the better part of a fortnight indulging in them. It was the happiest time of our lives, and at first we thought little of the consequences. As the time drew nearer for his arrival, however, we were required to begin thinking of the risks. She and Richard had not lain together as man and wife for some time, and I warned her that she would have to do so when he arrived, to tell him that she desired another child. But she waited. She told me afterwards that she wanted to be sure it was my child she carried."

Lord Stretford took a heavy sip of brandy. "Your sister's twins were born early, were they not?"

"Yes, they were early, and both rather small, for being twins."

"And Caroline was born a little late. Do you recall the differences, between her and your sister's twins?"

"Yes, she was larger and further grown – her hair and fingernails, particularly."

"So it was when Matthew was born. Richard had seen a goodly number of babies in the course of his duties as a clergyman, and he immediately knew that the child was not his. And so the degree of suffering Marianne had known before Matthew's birth was nothing compared to what she knew after."

Georgiana was more concerned with what it had meant for Matthew, that his father had known he was not his own son from the very beginning, but she knew she could not speak of that now. Lord Stretford had loved Marianne deeply, and it seemed by the expression on his face that this love had continued unabated. He would need to speak more of Marianne Stanton before the conversation could return to Matthew.

"It has been the tradition of my family to do so, but do you know why I remain active in politics? Why I have wished to amass the power that I have?"

He asked these questions but did not seem to expect a response, for he continued, "I do so because it enables me to protect those I care about. So when Marianne finally managed to get a letter to me, I intervened with every possible threat I had at my disposal, to protect her and the child. We all existed in an uneasy detente for the rest of her life, which must have been miserable – Jacob, and the girl she died trying to bear, were the result of Richard reasserting his rights as a husband. He did allow me to see her on her deathbed, although I paid for it – I promised to pay for schooling, for _all_ of his sons. She asked me to look after Matthew, to protect him, although she need not have asked. He was the product of our union and I loved him for it, although I could never show it so much as I wished."

"His father hated him from the very beginning, did he not? He blamed the son for the sins of the mother – and father," Georgiana finished, uncomfortably.

"I think there are few men who could have looked past what Matthew was, and Richard certainly was not one of them. He had never been a pleasant man, but it was finding himself wearing horns that made him resort to this holier-than-thou fundamentalism he practises now. Everyone is a greater sinner than him, most particularly his wife and brother, and Matthew was tainted for having been born of our sin," Lord Stretford said. "I am well aware that my own role in the matter reflects extremely poorly upon me – I have lain with my brother's wife, and I know that I will be judged for it. I believe in a more forgiving God than my brother does, but I will not know until I die which of us is right. Selfishly, this is why I never told Matthew the truth. I could remain the caring uncle who always stepped in to help him, rather than the man who had put him into that situation in the first place."

"I think he would have wanted to know, regardless of that. I believe you did protect him as much as you were able to."

"I did all that I could, but it was certainly best for all of us that he determined to join the navy. That was a career in which a wealthy and influential uncle could be seen to assist him, and it got him away from the parsonage. But do you truly think he would have wished to know he was a bastard – if not legally, than at least in the eyes of society?"

"I think he spent his entire life wishing for his father's approval – until we cut his acquaintance," Georgiana said, brushing at the tears that had come to her eyes. "I think he would have wished to understand why he would never gain it from the man he thought his father, no matter what he did. And I think he would have wished to know that he had his true father's approval – and love – all along."

"Then I must add that to my list of regrets."

"This is why you were so upset that he cut his father's acquaintance, was it not?" Georgiana asked. "You spoke then of the risk we had taken, and I thought it a little odd, for like Matthew, I could not see a risk in what we had done."

"Now you understand. His father could, in that moment, have decided to declare his son a bastard. Thankfully, there were two things that prevented his doing so."

"What were they?"

"Declaring that Matthew was not his son would mean declaring himself a cuckhold, and a proud man like Richard would have difficulty in doing such a thing," Lord Stretford said. "The other is the threat I have long held over him. He should have been defrocked a long time ago, for the faith he preaches has strayed much too far from the Anglican faith. I have thrice now intervened with his bishop to keep this from happening, and I periodically remind Richard – as I did after you cut his acquaintance – that my protection may be withdrawn at any time."

Georgiana had been weeping for much of their conversation, and she found herself succumbing fully to her tears. She had wished Matthew back so many times and for so many reasons, and now she wished for it deeply, just so he could know what she did now. Lord Stretford came around to kneel beside her and give her his handkerchief.

"I am sorry," he said. "I know this is a heavy burden to lay upon his widow."

"I wish he had known," she whispered.

"I hope that wherever he is now, he does, and he will forgive me for it."

After she had recovered a little, Georgiana said she would like to go upstairs to rest – and think – and he said he would walk her up. When they had reached the door to her bedchamber, he laid his hand on her shoulder and said:

"What I said about using my power to protect those I love, that extends to you – not as a niece, but as a daughter – and to my grandchildren, whether you ever remarry or not. You must always let me know if there is anything I can do for you, and I promise, if it is in my power, it will be done."

"Thank you – " she hesitated as to what to call him and then, because she thought he would wish it, she delicately embraced him and said, "thank you – father. I do not intend to remarry, and so I and my family will be very grateful for your protection."

Georgiana entered the bedroom, but rather than lying upon the bed as she should have, she seated herself at the dressing-table, lifting the miniature from the gleaming wood.

"I wish you had known," she said, gazing at that young man. "Oh, how I wish you had known. Did you ever suspect? Looking back, I can see how you _could_ have, but I never did."

The man in the little portrait made no response, nor would he ever, yet she continued speaking to him.

"Matthew, it's so hard. I don't know how to do this. I'm afraid I'm not strong enough," she sobbed, "and you're not here to tell me that I am."

Mrs. Annesley had apparently returned, for Georgiana found herself enveloped in an embrace as her companion whispered, "You _are_ strong enough. Your husband knew it, and so do I. You will get through this, and you will raise your children to be remarkable people, people Matthew would have been proud of."

"Do you think so, truly?"

"I know so. I have seen your strength tested before, Georgiana, and I have seen you emerge the victor. You will do so again, I promise you."


	5. Part 1, Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

It was strange, to be the ones left behind. What had been meant to be a happy Christmas party between Avery Hall, Rosings Park, and the Hunsford parsonage had turned sombre, with the news of Matthew's disappearance and then death. The Darcys had rushed off to Portsmouth immediately, and the Fitzwilliams had written to say they would not be coming to Rosings as had been planned. The Bennets had stayed through Christmas and then returned to Longbourn, which left only the Lucases and Ramseys as guests of longer duration in Kent.

The Lucases had good reason to stay, for they had seen a new granddaughter and niece, respectively, born at Avery Hall. Charlotte – finally a new mother at the age of three and thirty – had been grateful for the continued assistance of her mother and sister. The Ramseys remained mostly because they had no strong motivation to be elsewhere: the entertainments of Bath had held little appeal after the tragedy that had occurred in their family, and Catherine was not eager to go to Longbourn so soon after her mother had frayed her temper by comparing every chair, curtain, and plate within Avery Hall to those of Pemberley.

If anyone asked, the Ramseys likely would have said they had stayed because their brother, Herbert, lived so far away from the rest of his family in Salisbury. Herbert did seem glad of their presence, but the more permanent residents of the neighbourhood all seemed to get on very well, so Catherine did not believe he would lack society once they left.

The real reason they stayed was because there was still some unfinished business for them in Kent, and it was this they discussed in their bedroom one morning.

"I think I ought to reserve a post-chaise, for us to return to Bath," Andrew said. "They aren't always available, at the Bull. What day would you want me to speak for it?"

"There's something we need to do, before I will be willing to set a date for our departure," Catherine said. "I fear Herbert and Maria will never come around, unless someone gives them a little nudge."

"I think it may take more than a little nudge," he said. "I've never seen two people so obviously smitten with each other and yet so unmoved."

"Why won't Herbert come to the point?"

"Maria's sister is Lady Avery."

"Yes, and before that, she was mistress of the same parsonage Herbert now holds. Your family is from trade, and Sir William kept a shop."

"Until he was elevated to a knighthood. My parents taught us to remain within our own sphere. I was petrified, when I asked your father for your hand."

"You never told me that," Catherine said, finding this rather charming.

"I never told you either that it was your mother, who made me feel more comfortable in doing so. I have never received such an enthusiastic welcome."

"Yes, that sounds like my mother," Catherine smiled, feeling a little softer towards Mrs. Bennet than she had as that lady had catalogued Avery Hall. "Do you think you'll be able to convince Herbert if he's concerned over these things? Do not forget, you will be a landed gentleman someday, now that I am heiress to Longbourn."

"That's not something I ever forget, Cat. I'll put all these shots you've given me into my locker, in chance I need them."

"So how should we go about it, then?"

"No manoeuvres – straight at 'em," said Andrew. "I'll talk to Herbert, you speak to Maria."

"Perhaps I should speak to Maria first – it should be much easier to convince Herbert if he knows she would like a proposal from him."

"It's a plan, then."

* * *

Catherine walked over to Avery Hall as soon as she had broken her fast. She had worried that she might struggle to single out Maria for a private conversation, but these worries were eliminated when she met Maria in the lane, looking very disappointed to see Catherine.

"Oh – I was just going to call on the parsonage," she said.

"It wasn't me you wanted to see there, was it?" asked Catherine.

Maria turned a profuse shade of pink and said, "Well, I did want to see you, but – "

"But you wanted to see Mr. Ramsey more, did you not?"

Maria turned still pinker.

"It's not a secret, Maria – it's plain to everyone that you like him."

"I don't just _like_ him! He's so kind, and handsome, and whenever I'm in his company I hate to leave it."

"Do you want to stay in his company forever – as his wife?"

"I do, but I don't know what to do to make him offer for me. Charlotte says I need to be more forward with him, but he's a clergyman, and I don't think he'd want a flirt for a wife."

"Leave it to me and Captain Ramsey," said Catherine. "Stay at Avery Hall, for I expect you and your father will soon receive a caller."

"Oh, thank you, Kitty!" cried Maria, embracing her friend. She had never quite caught on that Catherine preferred to go by her full name now, and Catherine supposed if they became sisters, she would need to explain her new preference more firmly to Maria. For now, though, there were more important things to pursue.

She walked back to the parsonage, her thoughts pleasantly turned to the notion of being sisters with Maria, of Herbert's bachelor parsonage once again given a woman's touch. Herbert did not have the same future expectations that Mr. Collins had possessed before his death, but the living paid well, and Herbert was frugal. As well, with Charlotte living in one of the great houses in the area, gifts were likely to flow to the parsonage with some regularity. It would have been a good match for Herbert and Maria, even if it had not been a love match.

Although first she needed to ensure there _was_ a match. Andrew met her in the entrance-hall of the parsonage and she murmured, "Maria wants to be asked, but she doesn't want to act like a flirt towards a clergyman."

Andrew nodded. "Herbert is in his study. I expect this will be a very short conversation."

It was. Catherine was still removing her pelisse when Herbert came into the entrance-hall with a look of determination upon his countenance.

"Straight at 'em, Herbert," she said.

"That's what Andrew said," Herbert replied, and then he was out the door.

* * *

Herbert returned an hour later, his countenance so exceedingly happy that it was plain he had been successful, even before he spoke.

"Miss Lucas and I are to be married!" he said. "I'm to read the banns starting this Sunday, and I am to pass on an invitation to you both to dine at Avery Hall this evening. A celebratory dinner."

Catherine and Andrew Ramsey both expressed their happiness over the match, and only exchanged one or two sly glances between themselves over how quickly their matchmaking endeavours had shown success. When they arrived at Avery Hall for dinner, Maria ran up to Catherine in the entrance-hall, pummelling her with an embrace that threatened Catherine's ability to breathe. "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you," whispered Maria. "It is everything I ever wanted and it's all come about so quickly."

The only person perhaps more excited over the engagement than Maria and Herbert was Sir William Lucas, who toasted it as a capital match no less than three times during dinner. Charlotte and her husband watched this with mild amusement; Catherine was not sure whether Sir Robert or Lady Avery was the more unflappable of the couple, but she thought them well-matched. Mr. and Mrs. Smith seemed less sure what to make of Sir William's monologues, but they both seemed pleased, particularly Mrs. Smith. There could not have been much in the way of female company for Mrs. Smith before Charlotte had returned to the neighbourhood, and now Maria would be added to those small numbers.

It was a lovely, convivial evening, dampened by two things. The first was the thought that while one of Catherine's friends was embarking upon a happy marriage, another friend had just lost her husband. The second was when the women all went up with Charlotte to see baby Charlotte, in the nursery.

Catherine went with them even though she knew it would sadden her. After years of hoping for a baby, she had finally given up hope. Whether she was barren or the difficulties were on Andrew's side could not be told, but they were not to have a baby together. Charlotte, of course, had finally had a baby after many years of childlessness, but Charlotte had remarried. Catherine loved her husband, and that was not an option she ever wanted to face.

So she watched Charlotte cradle her daughter in her arms, she took the baby from Lady Lucas when her turn came to hold her, and she gave the baby over to Mrs. Smith, when sufficient time had passed. As she did so, she caught something of her own pain in Mrs. Smith's countenance. Mrs. Smith was also childless, although the former Anne de Bourgh had only been married for two years. Mrs. Smith still had more right to hope than Catherine did.

Andrew noticed this dampening of her spirits; he had seen it often enough, when Catherine visited her nieces and nephews, and he quietly embraced her once they were returned to the privacy of their bedchamber at the parsonage.

"Oh, Cat, I wish we could be so blessed."

"We aren't going to be," said she, bitterly.

"I know, but we've got to try to be as happy together as we can be, just the two of us."

"Someday, we'll have to choose an heir for Longbourn," Catherine said. She thought about this often, about who they would choose when the time came. She leaned towards one of Mary's children, the Stantons having less income to put towards their children's future lives, but in truth none of her nieces or nephews had their personalities so formed as to make a choice practical at this time.

But they would choose, someday. Would she request that the child live with the Ramseys, once they had made their choice? Could she rob one of her sisters of her child in that manner? Would that sister be happy over the opportunity given to the child: happy enough to part with him or her?

Catherine did not know. But someday, they would need to make the choice.

* * *

The Smiths were less attuned to having such a conversation, but having it they were, at very nearly the same time as the Ramseys. Anne's spirits had been low since she and Mrs. Ramsey had exchanged that look in the nursery, and this had been noticed by Thomas Smith.

"What is it, Anne? Would you rather we had stayed in mourning for another week?"

"No, this is not it. I am sad for Georgiana, but you had never even met Captain Stanton and I hardly knew him. It's – I know we worried at first about my having a child too soon after I regained my health, but now I wonder if it's ever going to happen. I think perhaps the damage to my health was too great, in all that time I was sick."

He nodded. "That is very possible, but it could also be that the problem is on my side."

"I think it's less likely," said Anne. "I am sorry, if you won't ever have an heir. I know we discussed the possibility before we married, but I was still hopeful then, and I think you were, too."

"I was, but I had no hope of an heir at all before I met you. Little has changed in that regard."

"But now you have Rosings, to pass on."

"Yes, but it is different for me than it would be if I had known it as my birthright. It is a place I have come to love, but that's because of our life here. We'll make the right choice, when the time comes, and I haven't given up hope that it will be our child who inherits. Let us go to Margate again for the summer, and see if more sea-bathing is beneficial for you."

Anne nodded. She would be glad to go to Margate again with him, even if it did not prove beneficial. It was the place where her life had changed, and she loved it still more now that she had been able to share it with her husband. They might not have a child, but they could surely still be happy, and Margate never ceased to make her so.


	6. Part 1, Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so thrilled to see all of you back and reading this story! It really feels like a reunion to me and I am so honored that so many people have stuck with this series all this time. I was able to get another batch of chapters ready today, so I thought I'd do one more post before the weekend is out!

**Chapter 6**

The morning after Lord Stretford's revelations, Georgiana was recovered sufficiently to wish to take her daughter to the square. The day was grey but rainless, and after she had broken her fast, she went to the nursery and found Caroline of the same thoughts as her, for the little girl scampered over to her mother and asked, "Park? Amewia?"

"Yes, my little one, we shall go to the park. We must get you bundled up first, though."

This process always took a goodly amount of time, with a squirming little girl who did not think she needed so much protection from the cold when she could not yet feel the cold. Mrs. McClare aided Georgiana, however, and then finally she was carrying her daughter down the stairs. Mrs. Annesley, upon learning of their destination, said she would walk with them unless Georgiana wished for time alone with her daughter.

"Oh no, you are welcome to come with us. Caroline is hoping to see her new friend, and if she does, she shall have no interest in her mama, I assure you."

Georgiana was right. The Duke of Bolton and little Lady Amelia entered the square just after them, and Caroline immediately rushed up to her friend, grabbed her hand, and pulled her away from the adults. Lady Amelia's father watched this with a smile, and then turned toward the two ladies.

"Mrs. Annesley, I believe?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"It is good to see you – not under what I presume the circumstances to be, of course, but I am glad to know Lady Stanton has friends with her at such a time."

"I understand your meaning – thank you."

They passed from awkwardness into silence, and each occupied themselves with watching the children, until the duke spoke.

"I envy children their happiness, their innocence. Even with what those two girls have suffered, they find it so much easier than we adults do. Sometimes I think I would give anything to be that age again."

Georgiana sighed. "I can see the appeal in that." It more than appealed to her, the notion of being Caroline's age again, both of her parents still alive, much of the joy and all of the sorrow of life still to come.

"Although Amelia barely knew her mother," the duke said. "All she knows is that she does not have one. It must be different, I think, for your daughter."

"It is," said Georgiana, shakily. "She – she asks after her father sometimes, and it breaks my heart to have to tell her he will not return."

"I am sorry, I should not have raised such a topic," the duke said, looking as apologetic as his words.

Yet there were no other topics they could speak of. He was not the light-hearted young man who had once courted Georgiana, nor was she the same person she had been then. He understood what she was going through, as did Mrs. Annesley and Lord Stretford.

This time, they separated the children before exhaustion and hysterics set in, with promises that they should meet again tomorrow so long as the weather was good. This placated Caroline, who had threatened tears at the mention of having to leave her friend, and she walked calmly beside her mother as they crossed the square to return to the house.

"Do you know what His Grace is after?" asked Mrs. Annesley.

"I – I believe so. The girls get on so well, I think he envisions them as siblings."

"Yes, I am inclined to agree with you. I believe you were always his second choice, and now that the first is gone and you have come across his path again – "

"He will not get his second choice," said Georgiana, firmly. "Caroline asks for Matthew, not for a replacement."

"My dear, it is too early for you to be settling such a decision – either way. It is too early for you to even be considering it, and for that I am sorry."

Georgiana did not correct her, although she already knew the decision _was_ settled. There was only room in her heart for one more, and that was the child within her. They walked on in silence for some time.

"I always knew it would be Captain Stanton," said Mrs. Annesley. "You were such a shy young lady, then, but I could see his effect on you."

"I wish you had helped me see it, sooner. It took me so long, to understand my own heart."

"It was not my place, to influence you in that manner."

"I wish we could have had more time," said Georgiana. "Three and a half years together, was all we had. Perhaps I should feel content with that – it could have been less – but it was still so little time."

They were approaching the steps to the house, and Mrs. Annesley reached over and squeezed Georgiana's hand, then Georgiana aided Caroline in climbing up to the front door. Harlow, Lord Stretford's butler, opened the door and informed her there had been no callers and no letters while she had been out.

This must have been a habit, long-established with his master, for there was little likelihood of there being callers beyond close family, particularly in the brief time the ladies had been gone. Still, it made Georgiana consider that her brother and sister would call again that day – they came every day – and she would yet again be faced with the awkwardness of sitting with them as part of their suddenly enlarged party. Georgiana half-suspected it was the cause of Fitzwilliam's suggesting she come with them to Pemberley, where conversations could be more intimate among those living with each other. As she had intended to inform them of her wish to travel thither with them that day, she was seized with the thought that perhaps she should call upon _them_ , instead.

"Thank you, Harlow. I would like the carriage readied to call on my brother and sister."

"Very well, my lady."

Mrs. Annesley looked at her uncertainly. "Do you wish me to go with you? I must admit I am finding this a little strange – I have only ever been a companion to single ladies, and as you said, you do not need a chaperone."

"And you have not been one, but you have been a friend and I am very grateful for it," said Georgiana. "I do think I would rather see my brother and sister alone, please. It is nothing against you – I would just like a more intimate conversation."

"Of course – I completely understand. I can take the child up, if you wish."

"That would be very helpful, thank you."

"Will you come with me, Caroline?" asked Mrs. Annesley.

The girl looked uncertainly at her mother, who said, "All is well, sweetling, Judith is my good friend. She'll take you up to Mrs. McClare."

Solemnly, Caroline nodded and took Mrs. Annesley's offered hand. The carriage came around promptly, the men who attended it wearing black armbands over Lord Stretford's very fine livery. One man stood out among them, both for his bulk and the black eye patch he wore, which made Bowden look far more sinister than he truly was. It was him who ran up the stairs to give his mistress his arm, aiding her down the steps and then into the carriage. Matthew had instructed Bowden to protect his wife at times Matthew himself was not able to, and this was surely what had prompted Bowden's increased vigilance over the past few weeks.

This vigilance continued at Curzon Street, where he walked her up to the door and then pounded upon it none too gently with his fist. This likely prompted the surprised expression upon Mr. Miller's face when he opened it, which became still more surprised when he saw Georgiana.

"Oh, Miss – I mean, Lady Stanton, come in, of course," he said, and proceeded to lead her to the drawing-room without making any attempt to speak to anyone to see if she should be received. "I'll just tell them you're here. And my lady, I'm very sorry for your loss. We all are."

"Thank you." Georgiana took a deep breath, not wishing to grow teary-eyed even before she saw her family.

Fitzwilliam strode in a few minutes after Miller left, saying, "Georgiana – we were going to call on you in the next hour or so. Elizabeth is – detained – in the nursery at present – by Charles."

"I am a mother, Fitzwilliam. I understand."

"Yes, of course. In truth, I'm glad you came to see us. We have – we have hardly had a chance to speak, at least in private." He seated himself in the chair across from her. "How are you, Georgiana? How are you truly?"

"Heartbroken," she said, laying her hand on her belly. "And worried over what comes next."

"Oh, Georgiana – I know your first birth was difficult, but you will have Dr. Whittling to attend you this time."

"But I will not have Matthew," she murmured.

"I know," he said, gently. "At least your birth will be in a safe place, though, and you will have your family with you."

"Fitzwilliam, I know you seek to reassure me, and I know you never truly cared for Matthew, but you do not know what he did for me. You do not understand how he rallied me at the most critical moment. If he had not, it is very possible Caroline and I would have preceded him in death."

"Georgiana – how could you say such a thing, that I never truly cared for Matthew? He was my brother. I was pleased to give him your hand in marriage."

"And then you never approved of anything he did afterwards, did you?"

"I will be honest with you, and tell you there are things I did not approve of. His choices left you alone for months while he was in the Baltic and then forced you to go halfway around the world, to have a child on board a ship, and ultimately they left you a widow at a terribly young age."

"Most of those choices were _my_ choices, not Matthew's. I was the one who wished to stay with him when he was ordered to China, and he gave me the choice of taking passage home from Batavia or staying in Bombay with our uncle to have the baby. I always chose to stay with him, but it was always my choice. And I was the one who convinced him we should go back to the Mediterranean – that he should finish out this command. Perhaps you hold it against him that he allowed me to make such decisions – perhaps you still see me as the little girl you hold guardianship over – but I am not that little girl anymore. I have seen the world, Fitzwilliam. I have seen more of the world than you have."

"No, Georgiana, I do not hold it against him that he gave you such freedoms, but – " an expression of immense frustration crossed his countenance, and were Georgiana not so angry, she might have sympathised with him " – but I do wish you had not fallen in love with a naval captain. I have seen you shed too many tears on his behalf."

"Then let me go and shed them elsewhere, so you shall not have to see them," she said, angrily. "I will not be going to Pemberley with you. I wish to stay with those who loved Matthew as much as I did."

Georgiana rose and began walking out of the room – she had not expected to quarrel with her brother in such a way and it had upset her deeply, but she did not wish for him to see it.

"Georgiana!" he exclaimed. "Georgiana, wait! Will you not stay, and speak further? Stay, and see Elizabeth?"

"There is nothing more to say. You see Matthew as a man I should not have married, and I see him as the love of my life."

"I had nothing against Matthew himself, Georgiana. Just his profession."

"His profession was who he was. It was what formed him into the man I love," she said. "I am sorry to have missed Elizabeth. She may call on me at my uncle's house if she wishes to see me."

Miller was unprepared for Georgiana's rapid re-entry into the entrance-hall, but Bowden was waiting at the door for her and when Miller failed to open it, Bowden performed this office, then gave his mistress his arm to escort her outside. Fitzwilliam called her name once more from the steps, but Georgiana did not look back until she was inside the carriage. His countenance was stricken, and Georgiana became aware that this was the first time she had ever stood up to him in any fashion, ever spoken to him as she had. She could not know then whether she would come to regret what she had said, but she was aware she had just alienated the person who had once been the most important man in her life.

* * *

Word had reached Elizabeth that Georgiana had come to visit them, and she was glad to hear it – it would be much easier here, she had thought, for them to be able to converse as a family. Charles had been nursing when this word had come to her, but she had thought she would have ample time to allow him to finish. She had certainly not expected to come down the stairs and hear her husband calling his sister's name from the steps outside, as that sister was aided back into her carriage and then driven off. When he turned to come back inside the house, Darcy's countenance was shocked and grieved, and Elizabeth went to him and took up his hand. "Oh, my love, what happened?"

"I hardly know."

Quietly, she led him back into the privacy of his study and encouraged him to sit with her. It was a long time before he spoke, though, haltingly recounting a conversation with Georgiana that had rapidly turned from an innocent query as to how she was doing into bitterness and anger. He did his best to recount it without bias on his side, yet even so Elizabeth knew there must be some. And even with this, her only response when he finished was to shake her head and say, "Oh Darcy, how could you?"

"I – I thought I should be honest with her."

"My love, there are times when it is better to hold back and say nothing, than be honest in that way. This is not the first time you have done this, you know."

"Yes, I know," he said, laying his head in his hand. "Now I do not know how to repair the damage I have done. I would like to go to Lord Stretford's house immediately and try to speak to her, but I do not know if I would be received there."

"No, do not go immediately. You both have strong tempers, I think, and I do not expect any conversation between the two of you would go well until they have cooled."

"Georgiana does not have a strong temper."

"She _did_ not have a strong temper – at least one shown to you – while she was a young girl under your guardianship. But I believe there is a sort of Darcy temper that runs within your family – or perhaps it is a Fitzwilliam temper – and she has inherited it as well as you. We had best expect it in our own children, for they will also have inherited a share of my own temper."

He smiled, faintly. "I think that was the hardest thing to hear her say – that I still saw her as the young girl I held guardianship over. She is right, though. You have long been telling me that things needed to change between us, but although I tried – believe me, I have tried Elizabeth – in my heart, she is still that young girl."

"I think that is why you have not approved of Matthew, is it not?"

"You believe that, too?" he asked, his countenance one of sharp concern.

"Yes, I do," she replied. "Almost everything you have said of him since they married has seemed to reinforce it. Yet I always saw what I believe Georgiana is too upset to understand, and that is that you were both critical of Matthew for his protection of her – as any father would be, or any brother who had been like a father – and insecure over your own role in her life."

"Because of Ramsgate."

"That, and I am sure a hundred other, smaller events where you were not sure you had done what was best."

He sighed. "I believe you have hit upon it with rather painful accuracy, Elizabeth. I have also been thinking that perhaps I was punishing Matthew over my own worries for Georgiana. What she made me understand is that much of it was her doing, her decisions, that put her in situations where I have been worried for her."

Elizabeth nodded. "I am sure Matthew had his flaws as a husband – some of them may even have been the things you spoke of with her – and I am sure Georgiana recognised them while he was alive. But in death, those flaws will have been forgotten. You know now – I hope you know now – that you cannot ever speak of them again, for you will merely see the same result."

"Yes, I know. Oh, how I wish now that I had not spoke of them at all! Poor Georgiana has already had enough to pain her, without suffering the aggravations of her own flesh and blood."

"Darcy?"

"Yes, my love?"

"I do not know if you realise it, but everything you speak of, as regards Matthew's death, is always around its impact to Georgiana. Never once have I heard you express any sadness over his being gone from the world, and if I have not heard it, I am sure Georgiana has not heard it. He may as well have been a horse that fell while she was riding it, and had to be put down."

"Elizabeth!" He appeared as though he intended to defend himself, yet the defence never came. "I – my God, that is why she said she wanted to stay with those who had loved Matthew. I have tried to, to at least know him better as a brother, but they have been absent from our company for so much of their marriage. I was hoping we might form a better friendship in Malta, that in knowing him better I might judge him less, but now – now it is too late."

"Oh, my love, I think those regrets are what Georgiana needs to hear from you," Elizabeth said, rising from her chair and leaning over to kiss his brow. "And I think you are going to have to learn how to admire a dead man – for Georgiana's sake, if not for his."

* * *

Still full of anger, Georgiana had been of the hopes that she could come into the house and slip upstairs to the privacy of her apartment. As the carriage turned down Margaret Street, however, she could see a carriage outside Lord Stretford's house; as they drew still closer, she could see it had the Brandon arms.

Georgiana could not know which of her Fitzwilliam relations was awaiting her inside, but as Bowden helped her up the steps, she determined it would be best to tell Harlow she was unwell and could not receive them. When Harlow opened the door and said, "Your cousin, Lord Fitzwilliam, is here to give his condolences," though, she changed her mind.

Andrew was standing in the entrance-hall, laying his card on the table there. "Oh – Georgiana, you are returned."

"Yes, I went to Curzon Street. Would you like to go into the drawing-room?"

"Only if you wish to – I do not want to impose my company on you at such a time."

Georgiana nodded and led them through the drawing-room door. After Harlow closed it, she found Andrew stepping nearer to her, and seeming for a moment as though he intended to embrace her, or perhaps take up her hands. Then he seemed to think better of it, and Georgiana was glad. She felt a kinship with him, for he had also lost the love of his life, but she realised also that just as the Duke of Bolton might seek a new mother for his daughter, her family might eventually think to connect the widow and widower among them in matrimony. Georgiana did not think Andrew would want this any more than she did.

"I am so sorry for your loss, Georgiana," Andrew said. "I – I know what a difficult time this is, and I would not have wished it upon any of us."

Georgiana nodded. "Thank you."

They were seated, and he said, "The rest of the family will be in town within the next few days. I came down ahead of them – I have their letters of condolence."

He gave over four letters to her, each neatly sealed in black. Georgiana had the sense, as she sometimes had before, that he was avoiding the rest of the Fitzwilliam family, comprised as it was of happily married couples. She had understood his reasons for doing so before, and now felt a deeper understanding of him.

"Andrew, may I ask you something – about, about when you lost Alice?"

"Yes, and I will do my best to answer, so long as it is not too painful."

"After she died, did you have times when you were angry? Just impossibly, inexplicably, deeply angry?"

"I did, very much so. Most of my anger was directed at Dr. Fielding. He came to the house some days after Alice had passed – he thought he had left behind some instrument of his – and my brother and father had to restrain me from striking him. I was not myself."

"At least your anger was directed towards someone who held some responsibility. I just had a terrible row with my brother."

He looked at her with sympathy. "Darcy is not always particularly good at saying the right thing at the right time, but I know he does love you very much. He would not have wanted to upset you."

"That is the trouble of it, though. He cares for me, but not for Matthew. I think he would rather I never have married him, so I wouldn't have gone through this," Georgiana said, what little remorse that had begun to slip through the cracks of her anger receding as she thought of what her brother had said. "But I could never agree with that. I had so little time with Matthew, but the thought of having none of it – even the difficult times – is still more painful than losing him."

"I wish I had known him better," Andrew said. "Will you tell me of him, or would that be too hurtful?"

"No – I think I would like to talk about him," Georgiana said, although it brought tears to her eyes. For the better part of an hour, she spoke of Matthew, of their travels together, of how skilled he had been as a captain, of how absent-minded he could be about domestic matters, something that might have irritated another woman, but instead Georgiana had found it endearing. This conversation did not occur without tears, but they came in a gentle weeping on Georgiana's part as her anger finally came to be replaced – not with remorse, but instead with fondness and sadness. When she came to understand this, when she came to understand how healing it had been for her, she asked Andrew if he would like to speak of Alice. This part of the conversation was more balanced, for Georgiana had admired her cousin, and she spoke fondly of Alice's good qualities, of happier memories of past family gatherings.

They were interrupted only when a knock came at the door. It was Mrs. McClare, with Caroline, who had been asking after her mother. The child ran in and scampered up the sofa to snuggle at her mother's side, and only when she was there did she notice the man seated across from her. Caroline eyed him with suspicion, and burrowed deeper beneath Georgiana's arm.

"That is your cousin Andrew, Caroline. He is family."

Caroline made no reply, but Andrew said, "I should be going."

"Would you like to stay to dine?" asked Georgiana. "It will just be Lord Stretford, Mrs. Annesley, and myself. Mrs. Annesley has returned, to keep me company."

Andrew appeared to consider her offer. Everyone Georgiana had named was a widow or widower, and she thought it likely that this was what caused him to agree. She was glad of it; while she did not want her family to consider connecting them in matrimony, she had more in common with Andrew than with anyone else, now.


	7. Part 1, Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Elizabeth awoke the next morning to find her husband still beside her in bed, although he was already awake. He seemed as worn and remorseful as he had been the previous day, and this was reinforced when he spoke, softly,

"I would like to go to Margaret Street this morning. I cannot know about Georgiana's, but my temper has certainly dissipated."

"No, it has not," she said, laying her hand on his chest. "It is not presently roused, but it will always be lurking here, and if Georgiana's ire is still up, you must not let yourself respond."

"You would do well to remind me of that once or twice more before I see her," Darcy said, smiling ruefully. "She takes her daughter to the square every morning – I thought perhaps we might take the twins and join her there. It will be easier, that way. I hope to persuade her to take a walk with me, and talk."

"I think that is a very good idea," said Elizabeth. "It also makes it easier for her to decline, if she is not yet ready to speak to you."

The look on his countenance indicated he was very worried this would be his sister's choice, and Elizabeth drew still closer to him and embraced him. "You will resolve this, my love – it may just take time."

As soon as the Darcys had breakfasted and the twins were convinced in favour of the novelty of going to play in Cavendish Square rather than Hyde Park that morning – convincing that required a promise from their father of taking them to ride their ponies in the afternoon, instead – the Darcys, save little Charles, got into the carriage to ride to the square. Their timing was good, for Elizabeth saw two female figures and a little girl, all clad in black. What surprised her was the presence of a man and another little girl with them, also dressed in mourning.

Once she had overseen the twins' exit from the carriage – if left to their own devices they preferred to tumble out with all the abrasions to their appendages they could manage – Elizabeth was still more surprised to see the man was the Duke of Bolton. A glance from Darcy told her his shock equalled hers.

The adults made their greetings, bows, and curtseys; the children stared at each other uncertainly. While Elizabeth had liked the idea of bringing the boys, thinking it would soften the tension, she had worried a bit about inducing twin boys to play with a girl younger and smaller than them. At least now there were two girls, but the difference in sizes was noticeable, and Elizabeth had not thought to bring anything with them for the boys to play with, while the girls had a leathern ball.

Georgiana shared her concerns, for once Darcy had asked – none too smoothly – if she would take a turn about the square with him, she responded, softly, "I would like to, but – Elizabeth, you will mind the boys, will you not? They're very well-behaved, of course, but they're so much bigger than Caroline and Lady Amelia."

Elizabeth promised that she would, and Darcy offered his sister his arm, which was taken up with a little hesitance. They walked off, and Elizabeth soon saw that her fears were unfounded, for the children established themselves in a sort of game – directed, it seemed, by James – where they called out who they intended to kick the ball to and then did so, with varying degrees of success. The square was filled with their laughter, and their yelling the best pronunciations of their names they could manage: "Amewia! Jame! Geowge! Cawo!"

* * *

Georgiana had been surprised but glad to see the Darcys enter the square. Remorse over how she had spoken to her brother had begun to settle in for good the night before, and she had been fully ensconced in it when she had collected Caroline from the nursery. It was not that she regretted what she had said – some of it, at least, should have been said – but she did regret how she had said it, and that she had left so precipitously.

Fitzwilliam, as well, had appeared remorseful, and once the initial pleasantries were done, Fitzwilliam had said, "Geor – Lady Stanton – I wonder if you might like to, to take a turn with me – about the square."

She had agreed, once Elizabeth had assuaged her concerns over leaving her daughter and her friend to play with two older – and larger – boys, and taken up Fitzwilliam's arm. They walked on in silence for some time, until they were out of earshot of the others. Then he spoke:

"Georgiana, I am so sorry. I did not know Matthew as well as you did. I – I do not form friendships easily. Many of my friends are those with more outgoing temperaments, those who became acquainted with me and sought to pursue a friendship, for whatever reason. Matthew was – he was more serious, like myself. I was not able to spend as much time in his company as I would have liked. I had been hoping we might grow a better friendship in Malta, but that was not to be. That is not to say I did not like him and admire him, for I did, but we were not close. I am saddened by a good man's death, but I am far more saddened to see you lose a man I know you loved deeply."

"I understand," said Georgiana. "And I apologise for the way I spoke to you. I said things that I had been wanting to say, but I should not have spoken in the manner I did. I – I have these bouts of anger. I do not recall it being like this when papa died, and I can hardly remember mama's death. But Andrew said he felt it, when Alice died. He called yesterday, to give his condolences."

"I am glad Andrew was able to help you – and I did feel it when papa died. I spent the better part of a week furious at anyone who could be blamed for his death – even at him, for leaving me alone with such responsibilities."

"I do not recall that at all – you were always so kind and comforting, to me."

"You were the one person I could not be angry towards," he said. "Yours was the responsibility that frightened me the most, but whenever I saw you, I saw a young girl very much in pain, and I wanted to do everything I could to comfort you, to protect you from any further pain."

"That you could not do," she murmured. "No-one could have, unless somehow you could have prevented me from meeting Matthew. Once I did – I suppose he was always meant to break my heart, one way or another. I am glad it was this way. At least I had his love and we had a life together, even if it was a brief one."

They walked on in silence for some time, until he said, "When we – before we quarrelled yesterday, you said you were worried about what comes next, and I very foolishly tried to placate you. What I should have done is asked what you are worried about."

"Many things," Georgiana said, and it was this that brought her to weeping. "I worry about bearing a healthy child, for this baby will be my last chance to have another child of Matthew's. I worry about leaving Caroline an orphan. If I do not, I worry about all these years I have before me, without him."

"Is there anything I can do, to help you? Please, Georgiana, tell me, and I will make it so."

"I – I would like to go to Pemberley with you and Elizabeth, if the offer still stands."

"It does, and it always will. You and your children will _always_ be welcome at Pemberley."

"Thank you," Georgiana murmured. "You know, you were right about the decision to go to the Mediterranean, even though you did not understand it was my decision. Matthew was prepared to retire to Stanton Hall – he had actually gone so far as to resign his commission – but I convinced him to see out this command. I wanted his retirement to come at more natural point, but if I had not pushed him – "

She was crying copiously, now, endeavouring to dash away the tears streaming down her cheeks and not succeeding. Fitzwilliam enveloped her in an embrace and said, "You must not think that, Georgiana. You cannot feel guilt for such an event. Blame the admiral who wanted him to sail in consort with this ship; blame the shipwright who built it, if you wish. Either of them had more of a hand in what happened than you, who merely caused Matthew to be in the Mediterranean. I did not know him well, but I feel certain he would not want you to feel guilt over this."

"I know, but I just keep thinking: if I could go back to that point and make myself choose differently, he would still be here today."

Georgiana withdrew from his arms, sensitive that they likely had an audience even beyond the adults and children that formed a part of their party. She took up his arm again, and they walked on.

"Georgiana there is something I did not tell you, about my anger after papa's death," he said. "Ultimately, it began to dissipate because I realised I was most angry at myself. I was such for so many reasons – my fears over taking on his responsibilities, my doubts over not calling in another physician from town to see him, my regrets over not spending more time with him after I left university. I wonder if perhaps it is the same for you."

His words startled Georgiana, for she saw the truth in them. "I think you are right, Fitzwilliam. I am glad you came to speak with me today, and I am glad I was – I was in a better state, to hear what you said."

"You were correct, though, that you are a grown woman and I need to see you as such," he said. "It is hard to think of you and not still see that young girl papa asked me to protect, but I am trying – I promise you, I am trying, although I am not always successful. I give you leave to check me whenever I fail."

"I shall if I need to, but I think I may not. You and I have never really spoken of these things, and I think we were overdue to do so."

"You are in the right of it, my dear sister."

They had walked slowly, but they were coming back around to where the children were playing, the adults watching them. It lifted Georgiana's spirits a little to see the children playing together so happily – she had heard them as they had been walking, certain that the girls were enjoying themselves when so much laughter was involved. It was another thing to see it, though, and she found herself still more glad of reconciling with Fitzwilliam, of going to Pemberley. It would be good for Caroline to share a nursery with her cousins. It would be good for her mother to return to the place that had been home for so much of her life.

* * *

The younger girls tired of their exertions much more quickly than the boys, and when both Georgiana and the duke warned there would soon be hysterics if the party was not broken up, the Darcys were required to remind the boys that there were still ponies to be ridden that day. This provoked their immediate eagerness to be off to their next adventure, which meant the Darcys could not walk with Georgiana back to Lord Stretford's townhouse. Thus they watched from afar as Georgiana, Caroline, and Mrs. Annesley crossed the square, and as a carriage with the Fitzwilliam arms stopped in front of Lord Stretford's house and Andrew Fitzwilliam got out.

"I had not realised the Fitzwilliams had arrived in town," Elizabeth said.

"I believe it is just Andrew – perhaps the rest of them intend to follow," Darcy said. "Georgiana said he called yesterday, to give his condolences. I know you said it might be easier for her to be around widows and widowers, but there are a few too many of the latter around her at present than I can like."

"Surely you cannot think Andrew has any sort of designs on her."

"No, of course not. Given how hard Alice's death was on him, I expect he is here out of sympathy."

"On the other hand, the Duke of Bolton has no heir, and a daughter who would be very happy to gain Caroline as a sister."

"I almost said something to her of it," Darcy said. "Then I heard a voice in my head saying she is a grown woman and must know what he is about. It was your voice."

Elizabeth smiled faintly. "Have I become your conscience, then?"

"I believe so. 'Tis a very fine voice, for my conscience to have."

"How was your conversation with Georgiana?"

"It went as well as I could have hoped. She asked if she could come with us to Pemberley, so I hope to have a chance to build upon it."

* * *

Georgiana laid in her bed, listening to the sounds of a town night. Although she was glad to be going to Pemberley, this bustle, this noise – even at such an hour – was what she had grown accustomed to, and she knew she would find the quiet of the country strange. What was still more strange – even now – was the empty space in the bed beside her, the curve of the pillow, untouched by a head.

There might – oh, how she prayed there might – soon be a child, to lay in a cradle beside her bed, there to be nursed by his or her mama whenever the babe woke. That side of the bed, though, that pillow, would remain untouched. There were things Georgiana was just coming to understand about widowhood – her widowhood, at least – and one was that she would never lie with a man again.

It was not that she did not enjoy the act – indeed she had, very much. Yet her enjoyment of it, her every memory of it, was irrevocably tied to the man who had introduced it to her. She recalled that night vividly, recalled him walking up to the side of the bed in which his bride was lying there trembling, awaiting those awful moments her aunt Catherine had promised were coming.

"Dearest Georgiana, did you think I was going to come in here and board you like you were a privateer?" he had asked, and her giggle in response had broken much of the tension. He had sensed that she was still nervous, though, and encouraged her to rise from the bed, to sit with him, to talk; it was still so novel for them to be able to sit, alone, and just _talk_ to each other. In time, talking had come to include caresses, and kisses, and a very young, very nervous bride slowly introduced to the pleasures that could come from marital intimacy, introduced by a man still recovering from war wounds and rather in need of a careful pace himself.

In time, of course, Georgiana had not required such excruciating patience; indeed, she had often been the more impatient one. That was only because she had been lying with Matthew, though. She had entrusted Matthew with her heart, with her body – with everything – and no other man would ever be able to earn such trust.

The child within her moved vigorously, reminding Georgiana that she was not entirely alone, even at this time. It was cause for reassurance, and yet she knew it also meant she was not likely to gain sleep for some time. Once roused, this child seemed to be even more active than Caroline had been.

Georgiana laid there, trying to ignore the jabbing sensations within her stomach, trying to keep her mind from where it too often went at this hour of the night: a rocky shoal somewhere in the Bay of Cadiz. Yet it was as impossible to do this as it was to hold back the tide or to stop the storm that had put the Icarus there. In those first days after Lord Melville had given her the news, Georgiana had been too shocked at the sudden finality of it all to comprehend much beyond what he had told her. It was only much later that her mind had started to turn towards what must have happened, in Matthew's final hours or minutes.

She had not been prepared for this. Before marrying Matthew, she had given consideration to the possibility of being widowed. Somehow she had always thought, though, that if he had been killed in the course of his career, it would be in battle. It would have been no less horrible to have him gone from her life, but at least she would have _known_ , would have been able to content herself with what she had no doubt would have been tales of his heroism, from those who had survived the fight.

Heroism there might have been, in the fight to save the Icarus, but Georgiana would never know of it, and in these morbid hours of thought she had concluded that he must have drowned: they must all have drowned. If it had been possible to get boats off, surely Matthew would have done so, but those on the Spanish shore who had witnessed the shipwreck had reported unequivocally that there had been no boats. Georgiana could not comprehend what it would be like to drown, whether it was a lengthy fight for air that could not be had, or a quick sensation of being overwhelmed by water. Perhaps it depended on just how Matthew had drowned, and that she would never know. She hoped, though – it was a horrific thing to hope, and yet still she hoped it – that it had been quick. Otherwise, Georgiana knew Matthew would have been fraught with remorse and guilt in his final moments, and she did not want that for him.


	8. Part 1, Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Georgiana took Caroline to the square again the next morning, for the child had begun asking after "Amewia" almost as soon as her mother had set foot in the nursery. They went without Mrs. Annesley, who had appeared at breakfast with a rather pink nose and then commenced a fit of sneezing such as to leave no-one in any doubt that she was developing a cold; she had been sent off to bed with a maid to attend her. Lord Stretford had promised his physician should be summoned if she was not better by the next day, and assured her friend was well cared for, Georgiana had gone to the nursery, and then to Cavendish Square.

The Duke of Bolton and Amelia were not long in joining them, and Georgiana more firmly felt the sense that someone within his household had been tasked to look out for the widow and her daughter, for no matter what hour they arrived here, they were never alone for long. Caroline had already been kicking the leathern ball about, and upon sighting her friend, she cried her friend's name, ran to the other girl, commenced some sort of conversation, and then took up Amelia's hand to run back towards the ball.

Georgiana smiled as much as she was able to, watching them, and her smile was echoed in the duke's words as he said, "I am so glad they have found each other. With Amelia an only child, I did not think it likely she would have such opportunities for – for – I suppose I must call it society, although it seems an odd term for children of their age."

"Friendship, I think, is the term you are looking for."

"Yes, of course," he said, smiling faintly. "I am infinitely glad they are to have this friendship through the rest of the season, at least – given the losses they have suffered. It is good they each have someone to lighten their spirits."

Georgiana sighed. "I – fear they are not to have each others' company through the season. Caroline and I will be going to Pemberley soon. It will be a comfort to me, to go to my childhood home, and it will be a chance for her to spend more time with her cousins."

"I understand," he nodded. "Yet this means I have less time than I had thought I would. Lady Stanton, I wish to put something to you, and you do not have to give me your answer straightaway. Indeed, I hope you will not, for I expect it may take you some time and reflection in order to give me the answer I would wish for."

"I do not think there should be anything you wish to put to a widow not even a month into her mourning," Georgiana said coldly. She would never have wished to drag Mrs. Annesley out from her sick-bed, but she longed at this moment for her former chaperone, who would surely have lessened the duke's willingness to say what Georgiana suspected he was about to say.

"That is why I do not want your answer now," he said, "but I do hope you will hear my proposal. You and I got on well, I believe, although we were each in love with other people – and still are. I think we could still get on well and have a good marriage, and I would be willing to wait as long as you need, to mourn your husband."

"You wish for me to wait, but you may have my answer now. It will not ever change," she said, weeping. "There is no room in my heart for another man."

"I am not asking for your heart, nor am I offering mine," he said. "But Lady Stanton, both of us have loved deeply and lost that love, and so what I am offering is companionship. A sister for our daughters, and for each of them, the mother and father they would otherwise not have. A stepfather for what I do truly hope shall be your late husband's heir, and when you are ready, an heir of my own."

"Your Grace, I understand your situation is such that you must remarry in order to father an heir," Georgiana said, encouraging herself towards sympathy rather than anger, for if she had allowed it to be roused she could have felt the latter in equal parts to the former. "But I have the luxury of remaining true to my husband's memory, and it is a luxury I shall take."

"I understand, Lady Stanton, but please take the time to give this proper consideration. It is not only companionship I can offer, but a home and a position. You would be a duchess."

He took up her hand momentarily, but Georgiana withdrew it, incensed. She had been willing to be patient and sympathetic to him, up until he had thought being a duchess was that which would sway her.

"I do not want to be a duchess! I do not want to try to make another marriage with you or anyone else! I want only to raise my daughter, and God-willing my next child. I want to tell them of their father, and I want to be able to turn my thoughts to his memory whenever I wish without feeling untrue to some other husband. And I want, when I die, for Lady _Stanton_ to be carved upon my headstone!"

He appeared wholly taken aback by her outburst, until she came to realize it was something behind her he was gaping at, and a hoarse voice called out, "Georgiana!"

She turned around. "Matthew!" she exclaimed, and then she collapsed.

* * *

Georgiana woke on the chaise in Lord Stretford's study, without a memory of how she had come to be there. Fortunately, Lord Stretford was seated in a chair beside her, and he smiled when he saw she had awakened, patting her hand.

"Ah good, you are back with us. Do you remember what happened?"

"I was in the square, with the Duke of Bolton. My God – Caroline! – the baby!" She grasped after the lapels of his coat, her hands clutched in fear and desperation over the fate of her children, and she was slow to release them even after he had laid his hands on her wrists and said,

"Caroline is well, and we have every expectation that the baby is too, although we have sent for your accoucheur to be certain. Bolton caught you, when you fell."

"Thank God," she gasped. She recalled vaguely that there had been some unpleasantness with the duke and scowled as some of the details began to return to her.

"Georgiana, do you remember why you fainted?"

"No – " she said, attempting to think, for it seemed her memory could not go quite that far.

"You fainted because Matthew approached you," he said, and as Georgiana struggled to comprehend him, she noticed he was smiling, broadly, and tears were beginning to run down his face. "Your Matthew – _our_ Matthew. He is alive, and he is returned to us, and it seems he could not wait a moment longer than was necessary to see you, although he should have thought better of shocking a woman in the family way as he did, particularly one already prone to fainting."

"Alive? Ma – Matthew?" It seemed her sluggish mind was behind her body in reacting, for Georgiana emitted a tremendous sob, and this was followed by a bout of crying unlike any she had ever known. The greatest wish she should ever have – an impossible wish, a wish she would never had dared to make – had, it seemed, been granted to her. For some minutes, she could not speak, and when finally she could, she asked in a quavering voice, "C – can I see him?"

"Of course, and he is very eager to see you, but we thought it better if I told you when you awoke, for his presence here might have sent you into another faint. He is with Caroline – I will go and get him."

"Oh, poor Caroline – she must be so confused."

"A little, yes, but mostly happy to see him. At her age I am not sure she fully comprehended what his being dead meant."

"No, I do not believe she did," said a voice from the doorway. "And I am glad of it, for it was hard enough to find her mother dressed in black."

That voice – oh, that voice. Rough, raspy, and yet still recognisable as the voice Georgiana had thought she would only ever hear again in her memories.

Lord Stretford patted her hand and then slipped away. Georgiana sat up on the chaise, trembling with anticipation, and found Matthew standing before her, his face deeply tanned, his figure shockingly thin, but most decidedly _him_. And then he was rushing to the side of the chaise and sitting beside her and embracing her as she sobbed and sobbed, clinging to him as if he was a ghost that might dissipate at any moment. Then she kissed him, not out of passion or desire, but out of _proof_ , of pure, aching need to feel his lips upon hers once more. They were dry. They were real. He was not a ghost.

"My God, Matthew, it cannot be you."

"It is, dearest," he whispered. "Oh, my poor, dearest wife, it is."

Georgiana pulled him still closer, so that her belly pressed firmly against him, and wept until she had no more tears. He loosened his arms, continuing to hold her with one as he laid a hand on her cheek.

"I am so sorry, Georgiana. I am so sorry to have put you through what you have been through. I had thought I would be considered missing, not dead. To see you wearing a black dress – it broke my heart on your behalf."

"Do not be – oh, Matthew, do not be! – to know that I may discard my black dress tonight – it is the greatest reprieve I could ever experience, something I could never have dared pray for," she said. Then she thought of how he must have found her in her black dress, speaking with his old romantic rival, the man who had been close enough to catch her when she fainted. "Matthew – the Duke of Bolton – I was refusing him – it was wrong of him to ask so soon, but my answer would not have changed – it would always have been no, I never – I could never love anyone but you."

"Shhh, dearest, do not worry yourself over that. I heard enough to understand my wife was vehemently declining an offer to become a duchess."

Her reaction to this statement was half laugh and half sob. "Caroline befriended his daughter, and I did not like to deny her any happiness she could have at such a time."

"No, of course you should not have denied her that," he said. "What I do not understand, though, is why you were all so certain I was dead."

"Do you recall that HMS Fortunee was to return to England, after the Blanche came out to replace her?"

He replied that he did.

"She did make her return, but there was another storm, and she put in to Cadiz, for repairs. There was – there was word in port that a Royal Navy ship had wrecked in the last storm, and Captain Fawcett sent a lieutenant out, to investigate. He saw what remained of the sloop and identified it as the Icarus, and he spoke to those on shore who had witnessed the wreck. They wished they could have attempted a rescue, but the seas were too rough, and – and they were very clear that no boats had got off from the sloop. But you did – you did get a boat off! They must not have seen it, in the storm."

"No," he said, quietly. "No – I was not on the Icarus, at the time that it grounded."

"I do not understand, Matthew. Where else could you have been?"

"I will tell you, but I would rather do so later, when my uncle may hear it as well. I would rather not tell the tale more than I have to." There was something in his countenance Georgiana had never seen before, a sort of guarded pain, and it pained her as well, even though she could not understand what would have caused it. Her curiosity could not surpass her gratitude at having him returned to her – whatever had happened – and so she merely sought a deeper embrace, impossibly glad at this moment just to have his presence.

* * *

While the twins had enjoyed playing with their cousin and her friend, they had not enjoyed it so well as riding their ponies in Hyde Park, and they had been adamant the next morning about a return to routine. Thus Elizabeth was sitting with Charles she awaited their return to the nursery. He coughed, and she found herself glad they would be returning to Pemberley, for she thought it possible that the air of town was part of what had caused him to be so sickly. After all, the twins – born at Pemberley – had always been quite robust in their health, save the whooping cough.

"I do not like the air here either, Charles," she murmured. "But we shall go to Pemberley soon. Do you remember Pemberley? Did you like the fresh country air better, my little boy?"

Charles might have recalled the place where he had spent the only summer of his life thus far, that brief healthy period of time, but his only response was to cough and say, "mama." As he had never said such a thing before, however, this prompted an outpouring of praise and kisses from his mother, who was elated with this development. After watching the twins advance at difference paces during their early development, Elizabeth had come to the understanding that such things were not a race, and not to be worried over. To this had been added Dr. McMullen's warning that his early illnesses could stall Charles's development even beyond what was natural, and so she had endeavoured to watch him through these last months with patience, with gratitude that he was still alive and developing slowly, rather than the alternative. Yet at least if he had been slow to crawl, coughed frequently, and showed absolutely no interest in solid foods, his mind was on a pace with his older brothers, his speech unaffected by the setbacks of his early months.

She endeavoured to get him to say it again, but as is usually the case with such things he had no interest in repeating his accomplishment on demand. They sat quietly until the thumping of little feet could be heard in the hallway outside and the twins came in and made their sweet little bows, followed by their older companion.

Mrs. Nichols and Darcy followed, and he gazed at his wife and youngest son and asked, "How is he?"

"He said _mama_ ," said Elizabeth, smiling warmly.

"Did he?" Darcy asked. "Well done, Charles. I do hope _papa_ shall be next."

Rather than saying papa, however, Charles emitted a stuttering little cough, which prompted both of his parents to frown.

"He is coughing more," said Elizabeth. "I will be very glad to get him out of this London air. I wonder if perhaps I should have had the birth at Pemberley." She had opted to have Charles in town because it had been the simpler and less expensive option, to be attended there by Dr. Whittling rather than having him out to Pemberley, where he could see no other patients and must be paid enough to make it worth his while. Elizabeth still did not like the air of town, but now she had friends here, and did not dislike the society as she had in her early days of marriage. It had been no sacrifice to remain here and enjoy the drawing-rooms and dining-rooms of those she liked, those she was not presently able to see due to her mourning.

"Yes, we should get him away from town air as soon as we can. I had thought we might call on Georgiana now, and set a date for our journey to Pemberley," Darcy said.

"Yes, let us go."

They were interrupted, then, by a knocking at the nursery door. Mrs. Nichols opened it to reveal a footman in very fine livery.

"Beg your pardon, sir, but Lord Stretford said I was to give this to you immediately. Your butler let me go up." The man handed Darcy a small note, bowed, and said, "I'll wait downstairs, if you've a reply."

Darcy tore the seal from the paper, unfolded the note, and cried, "Good God!"

"Darcy, what is it – is it Georgiana? Caroline?" Elizabeth asked.

"Put the child down, and I will tell you," he said, apparently endeavouring to keep his voice as even as possible.

"Darcy – "

"Put him down."

Trembling, Elizabeth set Charles down on the floor.

"Matthew is alive."

Elizabeth gasped. She had not considered the possibility that the letter contained happy news, although it certainly _was_ shocking enough that she was glad he had thought to ensure she was not holding Charles when she heard it. Tears came to her eyes, tears of the deepest happiness for her sister, for the brother that was returned to her. "Oh, how impossibly wonderful," she said, rising to embrace her husband.

"Lord Stretford gave no more details than to say he is with Georgiana, at present."

"Will you send a message back, with his man?"

"I will – to say we are overjoyed at the news and shall call on them tomorrow. She will want to be with him now, I am sure."

"Yes, I think were I her, I might not ever be willing to let him out of my sight again," Elizabeth said. She took up his hand and looked at him carefully. "You have been granted a second chance, you know."

"I do, and I shall attempt to make good on it."

* * *

Georgiana was only – and very reluctantly – convinced to part from her husband with Dr. Whittling's arrival, and she did so only because she _was_ concerned for their baby. This would not be their last child, now – they would have the chance of more children – yet she had carried this child for seven months and did not want the happiness of Matthew's return followed by the heartbreak of losing a baby.

Dr. Whittling pressed on her belly in various locations and asked whether the movements of the baby had changed at all – they had not, for the little one was quite actively moving about as they spoke. He told her he saw no cause for concern and then said, "I must say, Lady Stanton, your belly is approaching the size where I would not be surprised if you gave birth in less than a month, and yet you claim to have two months before you should have the child. I know you said it grew very large with Caroline, but are you certain you have the dates right, of when you missed your courses?"

"I am," said Georgiana, feeling embarrassed that they were talking about her size in such a manner. "I was much larger before I had Caroline, and she was a very large baby."

He nodded. "I would like to induce you into labour, then, so you need not go through such a painful birth again."

"What would that involve?" asked Georgiana. "I do not want to do anything that might endanger the baby."

"It is very safe," he said. "I would give you a draught of castor oil, raspberry leaf and Epsom salts. Some include blue or black cohosh, but there is a greater risk to the child, so I do not include it unless there is serious concern about preserving the life of the mother. After the draught, you would take a hot bath. For some women I also encourage a half-hour of walking, but since your first labour went so long I would rather you preserve your strength."

Georgiana nodded. Dr. Whittling always spoke authoritatively, but more importantly, everything he said always made sense, and his confidence that this was the right course instilled itself in her.

"Send for me if you have any further concerns; otherwise I would like to see you again in a month. We will judge then when we should initiate your labour," he said. "And Lady Stanton, I – I am very glad for you, that your child shall know his or her father."

Georgiana nodded again, tearfully this time, and thanked him. Matthew was waiting for them outside Lord Stretford's study, and was relieved to learn that the shock he had given his wife had caused no lasting harm. It was nearing time for dinner, and he asked her if she would like to go up and change.

"Yes," she said, looking down at the black fabric draped over her belly. "Yes, I most certainly would."

Moll Taylor was reanimated by this sudden change in her mistress's life, striding into the room and embracing Georgiana as she said, "Oh, milady, 'tis the greatest thing. 'Tis the greatest thing that ever was."

She remembered herself then, stepping back and apologising, but Georgiana could not censure her for such heartfelt happiness.

"There's a bit o' trouble," said Moll. "We don't have much that'll fit you and hasn't been dyed black. Some of your old dresses from India, s'about it. There's a few of those here and a few back at Stanton Hall. I sent for 'em, but I think ye'll be needin' to go to the modiste."

"I will gladly go to the modiste for such a purpose," smiled Georgiana. "I wish you would have waited to send for the dresses, though – I would have told you to have Taylor deliver them."

Moll was married to John Taylor, who had been the Caroline's acting carpenter during the ship's voyage to China. He had not been given a warrant for a more permanent position, however, and so the Stantons had offered him employment at their house and in the village that belonged to the estate, Bishop's Barrow. He had accepted it gratefully, but it meant the Taylors had been separated for much of their married life thus far, with Moll attending her mistress in the Mediterranean and now in London.

"That's mighty kind of ye, milady. It's too late now, though."

"Well, I suppose you might see him soon enough, anyway. Captain Stanton and I have not spoken about where we intend to go now, but I think we might retire to Stanton Hall until I'm closer to giving birth."

"That'd be nice, milady," said Moll, hopefully. She held up the dress in her arms. "I thought this one best, for tonight."

It was the first dress that had been made for Georgiana in India. The style was out of date, but the gilt muslin fabric was still the most beautiful Georgiana had ever seen. It shimmered in the candlelight, and Georgiana recalled how she had enjoyed wearing it to a dinner at Government House in Bombay, how the gilt in the gown had matched the golden epaulettes on her husband's shoulders.

"It is perfect," she told Moll.

* * *

They dined with Lord Stretford, a strangely silent triad – for what could they possibly discuss but whatever had happened aboard the Icarus? That, it appeared, was not a topic Matthew wished to raise with the servants standing about them.

He ate and drank voraciously, recalling Georgiana to how thin he was. It appeared Lord Stretford had loaned him a coat, and while Matthew's shoulders ought to have been a little thicker than his father's – thinking of this made Georgiana realise Matthew would have to be told, of his parentage – the coat hung loosely about him. Matthew was the last of them to finish eating, and when finally he did, Lord Stretford said, "Perhaps we should retire to my study. Harlow, please have tea brought there, and then we are not to be disturbed."

The butler nodded, and Georgiana knew this command would make the study sacrosanct for Lord Stretford's servants; if they could be trusted not to eavesdrop on the many political conversations he held there, they could be trusted in the same for whatever Matthew was to tell them. When they entered the study, they could see my lord's request had been anticipated – not a difficult thing to do, for tea was largely what Georgiana had drank since she had come to reside here – and a footman was already setting the tray down upon the Pembroke table in the middle of the room. For whatever reason, Lord Stretford's servants thought a pregnant woman incapable of making her own tea, so Georgiana merely needed to pour herself a cup. Lord Stretford poured two brandies, looked at his son's countenance, and added another finger to each glass.

Matthew took his glass, they were all seated, and then there was silence. Finally, he laid his head in his hand, took a deep breath, and said, "I was not on board the Icarus when it grounded, because there was a mutiny."

Georgiana gasped, dropping her cup on the saucer. She had come to sense that something awful had happened, but her mind had not gone nearly so far as – as _mutiny_. Lord Stretford seemed to have been better prepared for this possibility, for he sipped his brandy and stared sympathetically at his son.

"It was not premeditated. If it had been, perhaps – I hope – I would have been able to stop it. I'd had the sense from Lieutenant Rigby that it was an exceedingly unhappy ship, and that Lieutenant Coombs was the cause. In the afternoon that day I left you, Georgiana, I came upon them. I do not know what provoked it, but they had just beaten Coombs to death. The group that had done the deed could not have been greater than twenty men, but upon being discovered by me and realising they must either take the ship or hang, they seized me and quickly recruited others to their cause.

"They did not recruit the whole ship's company, and I still had the marines and the other officers on my side, but they were disorganised; they fought bravely, but not well. Seven were killed, and two died later. I grieve them more than any others I have ever lost at sea, to be killed by their own countrymen – killed trying to restore me to – to authority."

Georgiana was weeping in horrified sympathy, her mind filled with visions of Matthew restrained, unable to fight, watching good men fall in the futile attempt to retake the ship. She understood why he had only wished to tell this tale once, and she ached for him.

"There were twenty-four left who were loyal to the navy, when the fighting was done. My only hope at that time was that someone aboard the Caroline would realise something was amiss, but most of the fighting had taken place on the berth deck. As you know, a storm struck that evening, giving the – the mutineers – a chance to slip away. They locked everyone else in the hold, except for me. I was kept restrained in the great cabin, and their de facto leader – Hammond, was his name – told me they did not wish for any more bloodshed. He would give me two boats, if I would chart them a course to the Barbary states. They intended to sell the ship to one of the deys there and divide the proceeds among themselves. It was a foolish plan, although I did not tell him that – they were as likely to have the ship taken from them and be forced into slavery as to achieve Hammond's plan."

"Why did it take you so much longer to reach land in the boats, than it did for them to get near the continent?" asked Lord Stretford.

"They ran us well out to sea, before leaving us. Hammond did not wish to execute us, but nor did he want us to reach land in time to give the navy a chance to intercept them. Based on my last observation before we were put into the boats, I thought we had a better chance of making the Azores than the continent. We were at sea for twelve days – about five hundred sea miles, by my reckoning – but we did raise São Miguel on December the twenty-second."

Based on Matthew's thinness, Georgiana presumed the men had been given nothing in the way of supplies when they had been put into the boats, and it was likely he had been given little food even before that, when he had been held in the cabin.

"Hammond and the others took the officers' money and valuables, but they did allow the seamen to leave with theirs. Between what they had and what we were able to raise – I sold my epaulettes – we had enough for passage back to England, but we were required to wait for a ship bound for home. I did send a letter on a ship bound for Portugal, in chance that reached England first. I must presume it did not."

"No," murmured Lord Stretford. "No, it did not."

"They were very kind to us, the people of São Miguel. Many of us were in ill health, myself included, and we could not have asked for better nurses. They would not take a farthing of our money, and I think if we had been short, they would have contributed funds to help send us home."

"Did – did Hawke return with you?" Georgiana asked. Matthew's steward by sea and valet by land had gone with him to the Icarus, and he had been presumed dead along with his captain.

"He did. He was wounded in the fight to take back the ship, but thank God he pulled through and survived the journey in the boats."

"Thank God," murmured Georgiana.

"Has Bowden remained with you and looked after you?" Matthew asked.

"Yes, he has – he has been very protective of me, and – " Georgiana sighed; there had been too much honesty in this room for her to hold back the truth of Mrs. Annesley's situation " – and I have been fortunate enough as to have my old companion return to my service. I think I must tell you both the truth behind her availability to do so. She had developed feelings for her employer, Lord Epworth – feelings that were mutual. She left his employ and I brought her into my own, thinking I would like to have a companion in my – my widowhood. I will wish to keep her on until she has a chance to find another position."

"Of course," said Matthew. "I am glad she was here for you, to give you comfort in such a time."

Lord Stretford appeared thoughtful. "I think it would be better if she returned to Lord Epworth as his wife."

"She did not think that a possibility," said Georgiana. "She is of gentle birth, but she has acted as a companion for many years."

"Let me speak to Epworth," Lord Stretford said. "It may not be as hopeless as you think."

They fell into silence, Georgiana still reeling from everything Matthew had told them. Her imagination had never considered such possibilities as had occurred, as had allowed him to live and to return to her. She was immensely grateful for the outcome, but she also knew that what had occurred on the Icarus must have deeply wounded him. Wounds could heal, though, while death could not, and she would gladly take this poor, wounded husband and help him heal over being a widow, as she had thought she was that morning.

They had again descended into silence, and Lord Stretford looked at his son's flagging countenance and said, "Perhaps we should all retire. I believe it has been an exhausting day for all of us."

"I shall after I see Caroline once more," Matthew said. "I promised her I would come to see her before I went to bed. Will you come with me, Georgiana? I am sure she would like to see us both."

Georgiana nodded, tearful at the thought of seeing her family reunited. She was not the only one thus afflicted, for Bowden was standing at his usual place for the evening, waiting at the base of the stairs to look after his mistress as she went up. His eyes were gleaming: both the good one and the bad.

"Welcome back, captain-sir," he said, his voice gruff and thick. "I'm that glad to see yer back, and I look'd after milady, while you was gone."

"Thank you, Bowden – you've done well," said Matthew. "I shall take Lady Stanton up this evening."

"Aye, sir, a'course you will." Bowden saluted and stepped back. With Captain Stanton's hand on the small of Lady Stanton's back, they ascended the stairs slowly until they reached the top storey of the house. On one side of the hall there were two bedrooms used by the servants, and on the other was the nursery. Whether the room had always been left for this purpose could not be told, but it had been ready for Georgiana's daughter when they had taken up residence here, back when their hearts had been broken.

Now, little Caroline squealed, "Papa! Mama!" with great glee, and ran in those stumbling young steps over to her parents, who both knelt on the floor to embrace her – and each other. Georgiana's heart had been pulled in many directions over the last few hours, but now it was tugged decidedly towards love, to feel her daughter in her arms, to feel Matthew's arms around both of them, to feel her unborn child shifting within her. They were all together now, all safe and alive: a family with a husband, a father.

Eventually Caroline was coaxed into bed by her parents and Mrs. McClare, and the Stantons retired, Georgiana changed by an ebullient Moll in the empty bedchamber beside the one she had been using. Matthew's figure appeared even thinner in his nightshirt, and Georgiana's heart swelled, overcome by so many different emotions. She went to him, embraced him, kissed him, trembling, weeping, laying her hand on his cheek and kissing him more deeply, recalled now to her thoughts of the night before, that she would never lie with a man again. She _would_ , and she would do so now – even though her belly would make it difficult – for she could not wait until after the baby was born to complete their reunion, to be fully husband and wife again.

Matthew returned her kiss with equal intensity, but when her hands began to drift down his body, he stilled them with his own and said, "Dearest, you are much too far along. And my – my strength, my health, is not what it used to be."

Georgiana nodded. She had known him weakened by injuries before, but to think of him as still weak from starvation pained her deeply. She pulled him closer, feeling she had asked for too much; she should merely be glad of his presence on the other side of the bed, the presence she had thought she would never know again. They broke the embrace only long enough to climb into bed, and then Georgiana returned to his arms.

"May we go to Stanton Hall soon?" asked Georgiana. "I think it would be better for you to convalesce in the country, and I – I would like to have you to myself for some time."

"I wish that we could," he said. "But I must call on the Admiralty tomorrow, and I expect I will have to stay here until I am court-martialled. Perhaps they can be convinced to hold the court martial in Portsmouth, though."

"Court-martialled?"

"Yes. I was the senior naval officer on the Icarus, and the ship was lost. There will have to be a court martial. If there is time enough after that before you give birth, we may go to Stanton Hall, however. And we shall certainly go there after the child is born and take up the life in the country we had intended. I promise you, Georgiana, that I will _never_ put you through what you have been through again. I intend the court martial to be the last thing I do, as regards the navy."

Georgiana nodded, and snuggled up closer to him, glad of his promise, for she did not think she would be so fortunate as to get another reprieve beyond this one. She fell asleep quickly even with the baby's movements, drained by all the emotions of the day, comforted by the warmth beside her, by the sounds of the man who lived and breathed in the same bed with her. She was awakened abruptly, though, for someone was shouting, "No! No! No!"

It was Matthew – Matthew who had always slept so soundly as to make her jealous – and for a moment she was so shocked she did not know what to do. He had separated from her and much of the bedclothes were twisted about his legs as he continued shouting, "No! No!" Finally, she grasped his shoulder firmly, and shook it, shouting, "Matthew! Matthew! You must wake up."

His eyes opened, his countenance tremendously startled in the moonlight. Then he pulled her to him, whispering, "Thank God. Oh, thank God."


	9. Part 1, Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

As might be expected for a pregnant woman who had been significantly disturbed in the night, Georgiana slept late the next morning. She awoke to find the bed beside her empty and gasped, certain it had all been a dream. Her eyes darted wildly about the room until they reached the sight that allayed her panic: Matthew, half-dressed and standing at the window.

It appeared he had been gazing outside, but upon noticing his wife's distress, he strode back over to the bed, climbing back in and embracing her. "I am sorry, dearest. I did not mean to worry you."

"I thought – I thought it had been a dream."

"It was not," he murmured. "I am here, and I am not going anywhere."

Soothed, she laid her head on his shoulder. He had put on his trousers and a shirt, but had not yet attempted his cravat, and her eye was caught by what appeared to be a piece of ribbon at his throat.

"What is this?" she asked, tracing it with her fingertip.

"It was my hope," he replied softly. "You may see it, if you wish."

Perplexed, Georgiana pulled gently at the ribbon until a little silk pouch slipped from under his shirt. Still more confused, she said, "I have never seen you wear this, before."

"I used to wear it only when we were parted, but now I do not think I would be able to bear its absence."

The pouch was tied tight with another piece of ribbon, and as was to be expected of one of Matthew's knots, it took Georgiana some effort to loosen and then untie it. He made no effort to help her, though, quietly leaving her to her own discovery. When finally she opened the pouch, she had to swallow a sob at what she saw: it was a lock of hair, her hair, the one she had given him before they had been parted for the first time in their marriage. It was not the only one within, however, and Georgiana pinched her fingers over the second and carefully drew it out. This lock was shorter, wispier; it was the hair of a little girl.

"Oh, Matthew," she said, weeping.

"I lost almost everything – even your miniature. But I always had this, to remind me of those I had to return home for."

Still weeping, she whispered, "The miniature – I shall have another done, and you must as well, or better still a portrait. I was so distressed when I realised I had so little to remember you by. No hair for mourning jewellery, and no portrait, no miniature – or so I thought. Your – your uncle had a copy made, of the one you had done for him, and he gave me the original. It was very kind of him." Georgiana resolved to speak to Lord Stretford as soon as she could, for Matthew's parentage was not something she wished to keep from him for longer than was necessary.

"I am so sorry you had to go through that, Georgiana. To think of what you have suffered – "

"We have both suffered, Matthew, and I wish you would stop apologising. It was a circumstance neither of us could control."

"I cannot allow you to say that, dearest. I had some control over what happened. If I had comprehended sooner how hated Coombs was by the crew, if I had roused the marines more quickly when I saw there was a disturbance, I might have prevented everything that followed."

"You had not even been on board for a day, Matthew. You cannot blame yourself."

He said no more, but his countenance indicated his recriminations continued in his mind. Georgiana watched him and thought back to his nightmare, realising his wounds – the invisible ones – were far deeper than she had understood the night before. She worried for him, and yet her greater feeling at this time was still gratitude that he was there to worry over.

The Stantons eventually rose and dressed, but Georgiana wished to check on Mrs. Annesley before they visited Caroline and then went down to breakfast. She knocked on the bedroom door and was bade to enter, and Mrs. Annesley immediately sniffled and said,

"Oh, my dear, what wonderful news! I was so happy when Polly told me."

"I am glad she told you – I must admit everything else slipped my mind yesterday. I was thankful Lord Stretford thought to inform those who should know immediately."

"As it should have. I cannot imagine what a shock it was to you. Polly said you fainted – are you and the baby well?"

"Yes, Dr. Whittling came to check on me," said Georgiana. "I had come here to ask how _you_ are doing, though."

"A little better, I think, but not so well that I should rejoin your society. I would not wish to make you ill at such a time. And – and I am no longer needed, anyway."

"Oh, Judith, pray do not worry yourself over that. The reasons for my wishing to bring you on may no longer be valid, but you have been a friend to me through the two most difficult times in my life. You must stay with us until you find a position you are happy with," said Georgiana. She longed to tell her friend that Lord Stretford intended to speak to Lord Epworth, but did not want to give Mrs. Annesley false hope.

"Thank you, Georgiana, that is very kind of you."

"It is no more than you deserve."

* * *

Lord Stretford was already gone from the dining-room by the time the Stantons broke their fast, and as Matthew left for the Admiralty as soon as they finished that meal, Georgiana found herself strangely alone in the drawing-room. She determined now the best time to speak to Lord Stretford and sought him out in his study. He was attending to his usual substantial stack of correspondence, but set his letters aside as Georgiana was seated.

"Is Matthew gone to the Admiralty, then?"

"Yes – I am worried of what he will meet with, there. He indicated last night that he will be court-martialled."

"He will not be court-martialled, so make yourself easy on that account," said Lord Stretford. "I have not spent my life building up the power I have to watch my son be court-martialled over something like this."

"Can you truly do that?"

"I will find a way. I believe I hold enough sway over Melville that it should be that easy, but if it is not I have other avenues through which I can influence things. It is in the best interests of the Admiralty to let this go quietly."

"Because Matthew has been popular in the newspapers?"

"Yes, but moreover because Admiral Bourchier must have had some notion that there was something amiss on the Icarus. Her previous captain dies after a fall from his own maintop and the admiral thinks it necessary to have her sail back to England with an escort – but not to distribute her existing crew among other ships in his squadron and fill her with a new crew, as is usually done with ships thought to be mutinous. If he had, or if he had given Matthew even the slightest warning, this would not have happened."

"You think Admiral Bourchier knew the ship was mutinous?"

"I believe so, although I think perhaps he did not realise its lieutenant was as hated as the captain. I also do not think he anticipated Matthew would be so active in assisting the ship." He sighed. "The commander who was to take over the Icarus was named D'Abernon, was he not?"

"Yes," Georgiana said.

"The Bourchiers and D'Abernons have been at odds for years. Some duel a few generations back or some other such thing."

"You think he intended a mutiny should happen to Captain D'Abernon?"

"Perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt and say that was not his intent. At the least, I think he did intend to hand him a very unhappy ship. And if this comes out in public – which I shall ensure it does, if necessary – there will be a scandal. Government has already retrenched with the war over; if public opinion turns against the navy, they will likely be in favour of further retrenchment."

"Thank you," whispered Georgiana. "I do not want him to have to through that, not after everything else he has suffered."

He nodded. "I think that is not why you are here, though."

"No – I – you must tell him. I cannot keep such a thing a secret from him."

"I understand. Will you allow me a little time? This will be a delicate topic to broach and I do not want to go about it in the wrong way, particularly at such a time."

"Yes, but just a little time. I had wanted to go to Stanton Hall, if there was sufficient time after the court-martial. If there is not to be one, I expect we will go sooner, and I would rather he know before we go."

"Of course." He smiled, faintly. "I must say, Georgiana, I was a little acquainted with your mother – I did not know her well, but I saw her occasionally at events, and when Matthew seemed to take a serious interest in Lady Anne Darcy's daughter, I was a worried for him. Your mother was a kind, pretty little lady –

impeccable manners – but a shyer creature I never saw. Such a woman would not have had the constitution to be any naval captain's wife, still less to bear what you have borne."

Georgiana was silent, feeling that she ought to be a little angry on her mother's behalf, but not finding it within herself. Lady Anne Darcy had died too early for her daughter to know whether Lord Stretford's description was accurate. Based on what little others had told her, she suspected it was. After all, she herself had been very shy before Elizabeth's example and encouragement had changed her, and then her marriage and a journey halfway around the world had altered her still further.

"Lady Anne would be proud of you, I think," he said, perhaps taking her silence for dislike of what he had said, rather than ambivalence.

"I hope so," she murmured.

Georgiana left Lord Stretford to his correspondence and returned to the empty drawing-room. Callers would come, she was sure – at the very least Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth – but for now she would have to find her own occupation. Poorly executed needlework had filled her time of grief, but it was time for other pastimes, she thought. She considered going up to spend the morning with Caroline, but feared her appearance without Mathew might distress the poor child, who had still been overjoyed to see him that morning. Caroline might recall the park, too, and Georgiana was not yet ready for her next visit there, which was certain to be fraught with awkwardness. Then her eyes fell upon the pianoforte, and she smiled. There was no longer any reason why she could not take up that old favourite occupation.

* * *

Elizabeth had expected to find complete happiness, when the Darcys called at Lord Stretford's house. It was only after Darcy had embraced Matthew in a manner that had certainly surprised his brother-in-law but seemed to please his sister, and Elizabeth had followed this with her own embrace, that she came to see relief and seriousness was more the tenor of Matthew's return.

This made sense, once she thought upon it: her brother appeared much thinner than when she had seen him last, and she could only presume that the word that had got back to the Admiralty about no boats getting off from the Icarus had been wrong, and some tale of survival was involved. The tale was never told, however, and a certain reticence in Matthew's countenance prevented Elizabeth – who had a great deal more natural curiosity than was likely good for her – from asking about it. They sat in awkward silence until Elizabeth thought to ask of how little Caroline had taken the news, and this was a happy topic for both Caroline's parents and her great-uncle. They followed this with an inquiry on little Charles and the twins, and from this conversation naturally flowed to the growing-up of children.

This was interrupted by the sound of voices in the entrance-hall. One was Lord Stretford's butler, and unfortunately the other was entirely too familiar to three of the occupants of the drawing-room.

"Oh, I am sure they will be happy to see me," said Lady Harrison, née Bingley. "They named their daughter after me, you know. I am a very close friend."

Georgiana looked mildly horrified and whispered, "She cannot possibly think Caroline was – "

Elizabeth then interrupted her sister with a giggle she had been trying mightily to suppress, unable to keep it in any longer. This was for the best, though, for it prompted Darcy to emit the chuckle it seemed he had also been attempting to hold in, and this in turn brought the entire drawing-room to laughter, Georgiana included. It was to this that Lord Stretford's butler entered, asking if they were at home for Lady Harrison. Georgiana, with the countenance of one who has an aggravating task to accomplish but determines it best to get it over with, said that they were.

Caroline entered, swept a graceful curtsey, and then seated herself. "Oh, I had to come as soon as I heard – how remarkable! How wonderful!"

Elizabeth had not been certain whether Caroline was calling to give her condolences or had somehow managed to hear the news of Matthew's survival. Now she had her answer.

"How relieved you must be, dear Georgiana! And of course my dear little namesake must be so pleased to have her father back. It is nothing short of a miracle, I am sure."

Caroline's speech was rather substantially undermined by her gaze, which flitted between Matthew and, strangely, Elizabeth, never resting upon the lady she professed happiness for. Her glances seemed less strange once Elizabeth realised she was here for one purpose only: gossip. Caroline's friends in town were the very sort of people Elizabeth loathed spending time in company with, those who filled their time with the latest _on dits_ and had no interest in – or perhaps no capacity for – deeper conversation. Lady Harrison had drawn on her ridiculously presumed connexion to the Stantons and was here so _she_ would be the authority on what was likely to be the most momentous news in town that week, the resurrection of Captain Sir Matthew Stanton. Her glances at Matthew would provide her with a description of the captain who had been lost at sea. Her glances at Elizabeth were no less inexplicable: over the past two years, Sarah Kelly had been steadily endeavouring to make her mistress the height of fashion, and she had succeeded. Every dress Elizabeth had worn out while mourning Queen Charlotte had been written up in the newspapers, and now that she was suddenly out of mourning, she was wearing a day dress with trim more elaborate and yet less fussy than the many flounces on Caroline's gown. That lady's eyes now fell upon the artful puff in Elizabeth's sleeves, and Elizabeth gave Lady Harrison such a glance as to inform her that Elizabeth knew fully what she was about.

Caroline averted her eyes but did not cease her monologue, which continued with: "I do not understand how the Admiralty could have been so wrong about your being dead, Sir Matthew."

"They were wrong, about boats having got off from the Icarus," said Georgiana.

"Oh, was that it?" asked Caroline, her tone one of nonchalance, although Elizabeth was certain she was memorising this so that it could be repeated. "Still, how awful for you to have to go through that – so heart-breaking to think you had lost your husband, and then all that pressure to have to bear a baronet. How happy you must be that things have turned out this way."

"Yes, I am very happy," said Georgiana, although her tone was one of aggravation, not happiness. "Captain Stanton, I do not believe I told you of how well Lieutenant Rigby did in bringing the Caroline – _HMS Caroline_ – back to Portsmouth. She was a little damaged from the storm, but he managed everything admirably."

Elizabeth glanced over at her husband, to see if he now understood how deep this Darcy – or Fitzwilliam – temper ran within his sister. It had certainly come forth, although in too subtle a fashion for Caroline Harrison to grasp, for she sat and simpered as Matthew spoke of his gratitude towards Lieutenant Rigby. They were saved from any comments that might have caused Georgiana's temper to burst forth in a more obvious way when Lord Stretford looked at the clock and observed it was quarter past the hour. This was done with such a withering look at Caroline that even she could not miss its meaning.

"Oh yes, I must be going," she said. "Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam, would you like to walk out with me?"

"They are family, and shall be staying to dinner, I hope," said Lord Stretford.

If this caused Caroline any embarrassment, she did not show it as she rose, curtseyed, and took her leave.


	10. Part 1, Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Caroline was not the last person to call on Matthew's relations in professed happiness over his return, but those who called the next day were both more sincere and better-mannered about it than she had been. The first caller was the most illustrious of those that could be expected, and Elizabeth would have missed her had she not been coming down the stairs from the nursery just in time to hear, in the unmistakable accent of Countess Esterházy:

"No, I do not wish to intrude on the family at such a time. I will just leave my card, and please tell Mrs. Darcy that I am very glad of what I have heard regarding her brother."

"Countess Esterházy, it is so good to see you, and it is no intrusion at all," said Elizabeth, descending the remainder of the stairs. "Please come to the drawing-room with me. I feel as though it has been ages since I have seen you."

"If you are certain it is no intrusion, I shall, for it _has_ been ages, and I have missed you," said the countess, following Elizabeth. They were seated in the drawing-room and the countess said, "I wished to convey how happy I was to hear the news that your brother had been found alive. It must be such a relief to your family."

"It is." Elizabeth smiled. "We dined with them yesterday – he is a little thin, but otherwise seems in good health."

"I am very glad to hear that. And your sister? I believe she was in the family way, was she not?"

"Yes, and very far along, but her health is as good as it can be in such a state," Elizabeth said, to which Countess Esterházy smiled knowingly, for she too had borne three children. "How have you been? Are your family in health?"

"We have all been well, except poor little Nicholas. He has a tooth coming and had a little fever two days ago – the physician wanted to have someone in to lance his gums. He does this every tooth, and every tooth I tell him no, if we just have patience the tooth will come. Yesterday the tooth broke through, and the fever is gone, just as I said it would be."

"May I guess he did not acknowledge you were right?"

The countess laughed. "Of course not! That is not the way of physicians. Who is it you use, here in town? I recall Whittling attended your birth, but I cannot remember your regular physician."

"Dr. McMullen. He was educated in Edinburgh and is not quite so – arrogant – as is the norm for his profession. I am glad to have found him and Dr. Whittling, for I have little patience for arrogance."

"Nor do I – that is one of the reasons why I like you, Mrs. Darcy. I think I will bring in your Dr. McMullen, the next time I have need of a physician," Countess Esterházy said. "Now, I am sure it is too early for you to be thinking of such things, but when you are ready for some society, I will host you to dinner. Just a little party – no one who will try either of our patiences."

Elizabeth chuckled. "That sounds lovely, but I fear it will not be in my power to accept anytime soon. We had intended to take Lady Stanton and her daughter to Pemberley so she could mourn more quietly, and although now she will not be going with us, we have decided to go forward with the trip. Little Charles has a cough, and I think country air will be better for him."

Countess Esterházy's face fell. At the beginning of Elizabeth's acquaintance with her, Elizabeth had thought the countess to be making a pet of her, and moreover had feared growing closer to a woman with the power to break someone of Elizabeth's station just as easily as she could make her. Elizabeth never allowed herself to forget the countess's power but as their acquaintance had deepened, Elizabeth had come to understand that Countess Esterházy had sought her friendship because she could see the similarities between the two of them. They were both lively and intelligent, had little patience for fools, and greatly enjoyed each other's conversation. The countess's disappointment was genuine, and Elizabeth felt badly that her friend's hopes over her return to society had been dashed. Quickly, she added, "However I believe we will be back in less than two months, for Lady Stanton's lying-in."

"Oh! I had feared you were to abandon me for the whole season, so this is a relief. We must set a date, so I will have it to anticipate."

They did set a date, but then the countess – a stickler for propriety – would take her leave, for while she could be convinced to come to the drawing-room rather than leaving her card, she could not be talked into staying for more than a quarter-hour on a first call. She left asking Elizabeth to pass on her best wishes to the Stantons.

* * *

The Dowager Viscountess Tonbridge had no qualms about appearing directly at Cavendish Square. Her long-standing affair with Lord Stretford – interrupted only by his mourning – enabled her to enter the house with assurance that she would be received. Lady Tonbridge was warm towards them all, clasping the hands of Matthew and then Georgiana, and saying how glad she was to see them reunited. She, too, limited her call to a quarter-hour, although she ended it by asking Lord Stretford if she could speak with him privately in his study, with no-one in any doubt of what was to follow.

Georgiana blushed to watch them go, and she considered their affair in a different manner, now that she knew what she did about Lord Stretford and Marianne Stanton. He might not have stayed true to Marianne in body, but while he might have a fondness for Lady Tonbridge, his heart still belonged to Matthew's mother. Then Georgiana blushed still further, for this was not something she could share with Matthew; Lord Stretford had yet to make good on his promise to speak to him, and holding such a secret wore heavily on Georgiana.

It was something of a relief when Matthew left her, for he had an appointment at the Admiralty. Her relief was short-lived, however, for the sound of Caroline's wailing suddenly reached her. Fortunately, Bowden had heard it as well and anticipated that his mistress would wish to rush up the stairs, for the sound of the child's distress was such that Georgiana would have climbed them alone if he had not been awaiting her. When they reached the nursery she found Caroline lying on the floor, pounding upon it with her fists and crying, "Park! Go park! Amewia!" Mrs. McClare was kneeling beside her, but her attempts to soothe the child did not seem to be making any progress

Caroline had apparently recalled the park, and desired to go there immediately. She had always been such a well-behaved child that Georgiana felt as helpless as Mrs. McClare looked, in trying to determine what should be done. She thought back to those in her life who might have served as a model for this sort of situation, and it was not her mother, nor even a former nurse or governess that she drew upon. Mimicking her aunt Ellen's voice as best she could, Georgiana said,

"Caroline, what are you about, lying on the floor and screaming in such a fashion?"

The child, having never heard her mother speak in this tone, stilled and stared tearfully at Georgiana. "Wan'ta go park," she said.

"When young ladies wish to do something, they stand up and politely ask, like this," Georgiana said, standing up straighter, "May I please go to the park?"

Caroline sniffled and picked herself up off of the floor, then said softly, "Pwease go park."

"That is very good, my dear. Now, your aunt Elizabeth is coming soon to go shopping for dresses with me, but since you have asked so nicely, we will go for a little visit in the park."

Showing that miraculous ability children have to switch from one emotion to the opposite in a matter of seconds, Caroline's tear-streaked face filled with delight. Her mother was far less enthusiastic about the trip, for if Caroline got her wish and Amelia appeared, Georgiana would certainly have to speak to Amelia's father about what had happened.

Amelia did appear, her hand held by a father who looked exceedingly abashed. When the little girls had run off, he cleared his throat and said, "Lady Stanton, may I give you my deepest apologies for distressing you, when last we were here? I never expected things would end in the manner they did, of course, but you were right that it was too soon to be asking you such a thing. I acted precipitously; I wished to stake my claim, as it were, before anyone else could."

"Anyone else?"

"Yes. It was commonly understood that your husband had left you his estate and the majority of his remaining fortune. Once your mourning was completed – and very likely before that – you would have had any number of requests for your hand. There is no bigger prize on the marriage mart than a pretty, rich young widow who has successfully borne a child. I had hoped to give you an offer that was not based on pecuniary matters, as I expect many others would have been."

"Your interest was not based on pecuniary matters _this time_ ," Georgiana said, not willing to ignore his treatment of her during his first courtship.

He glanced down, embarrassed. "True. I never loved you in the way I loved Amelia, but I always liked you. Things change, when you lose the one you love. I am glad for you, that your loss was not permanent – I hope you understand that – but you were not widowed long enough for the first shock of grief to pass. Eventually, one must turn one's mind in a more practical direction, must begin to think of how to live knowing the love of your live has passed."

"I am very sorry that you have suffered that loss," said Georgiana. "If I could grant us both a reprieve, I would."

"I thank you for that," said he, "but another thing I have learned is that I cannot dwell in fantasy. The dream where your spouse is still alive and well does not usually come true. You have been peculiarly blessed in that, Lady Stanton, and I hope you understand it."

Georgiana nodded, tears forming in her eyes. "I do."

"If you will permit it, I would still like for our families to be friendly – particularly since Amelia and Caroline have struck up such a friendship."

"Thank you, I would like that as well." This was not wholly accurate: there was likely to be a great deal of awkwardness whenever the adults of their two families met. Yet for Caroline's sake Georgiana was willing to pursue the connexion, and she thought Matthew would agree. She wondered then what the scene here in the square had been like, after she had fainted: her in the Duke of Bolton's arms, the duke most assuredly shocked, Matthew having to claim his wife back from his former rival, and Caroline overjoyed to see her father again.

"I am glad," the duke said. Elizabeth had arrived and could be seen walking across the square towards them; the duke must have noticed her, for he continued in a somewhat hurried manner: "Before your sister reaches us, I must also express my gratitude to you, for you made me realise that any lady I would want to marry will not accept me because it will make her a duchess, and I would be best not to mention it."

Georgiana nodded. She ought, she realised, be grateful to him as well: twice in her life, he had helped her understand the depth of her love for Matthew. It was not something she would ever have said to him, though, even if Elizabeth was not approaching them and giving her greetings. Georgiana called Caroline back to them and told her it was time to leave so her mother could go shopping with aunt Elizabeth, but the expression on the little girl's face – and that of her friend – was so downcast the duke said, "Perhaps you might send your nurse out to watch Caroline, so they might play together longer? I can watch them while you summon her."

Georgiana thanked him and sent Bowden into the house to have Mrs. McClare retrieved. She looked back at the square one more time before climbing into Elizabeth's carriage, but found her daughter quite unconcerned over her absence.

"I am a little surprised to have seen the duke today," Elizabeth said. "I had thought he might become scarce, once his object could not be achieved."

"He did need to see me at least once more, to apologise. He – he made me an offer of marriage."

"So soon!" exclaimed Elizabeth.

Georgiana was thus required to tell the tale of the Duke of Bolton's proposal, which took up much of the drive to Bond Street. As she told it, she was struck once again by the alteration of the duke, by what life could do to turn a happy, amiable young man into a serious, practical widower who seemed older than his years. Elizabeth's reaction began with indignance, that he would ask at the time he did, but in time Georgiana's sympathy for him won her over as well, and when the carriage stopped on Bond Street they were both genuinely wishing for him to find a new wife who would bring him some happiness.

Georgiana had known herself to be the subject of gossip, and presumed Matthew's return had only fuelled this gossip, but she was unprepared for what happened when they entered the shop. There was hardly a lady inside who did not stop, stare, and whisper as the sisters walked over to where Sarah Kelly and Moll Taylor were standing with a pile of fabrics, the latest copies of both Ackermann's Repository and La Belle Assemblée, and what looked to be a series of sketches altering the gowns that would have been found in those magazines. The sisters both curtseyed, but it was Sarah Kelly who spoke, handing the sketches to Georgiana and saying, "I did these for you, my lady. These are the dresses I think best suited to a lady in the family way."

Georgiana took the sketches from her and found that they were similar to what might have been found in the magazines, but that each showed a pregnant woman rather than a lithe young lady. She went through them quickly the first time, then more slowly, setting aside the ones she liked best. She became aware as she was doing this that the attention of the room had not left her, and she felt still more discomfited until Moll leaned close with one of the sketches she had discarded. Rather than endeavouring to convince Georgiana of the merits of the dress, she instead whispered, "They ain't starin' at ye 'cause of what happened, with the captain. They're starin' at ye 'cause you're here with Mrs. Darcy."

While she had been in the Mediterranean, Georgiana had gotten a sense from Elizabeth's letters that Sarah Kelly had made her quite modish, but Elizabeth had always written about it in such a self-effacing way that Georgiana had not realised she had come to be considered an arbiter of fashion. The other ladies in the shop continued to stare as the abigail sisters showed Georgiana each of the fabrics they had set aside, they followed word-for-word the argument those sisters had over how much trim was appropriate for a woman of Lady Stanton's height when she was in the family way, and they were in raptures of curiosity when that conversation transitioned into Irish so that none of them could understand it.

When Georgiana finally ordered four new dresses, it seemed the entire shop hung on her every word. This was nothing, though, to how they responded when Elizabeth said one of the fabrics had caught her fancy. Sarah Kelly agreed that it should suit her, and based on the reaction to the ensuing discussion of what style it was best suited for and how it should be trimmed, Georgiana thought it very likely that the shop was about to sell out its stock of that fabric. To all of this, Elizabeth's reaction was somewhat suppressed amusement, which she explained once the two ladies had returned to the privacy of the carriage:

"I should have warned you what it is like to go to the modiste with me these days. I will admit there is a vain part of me that enjoys being so fashionable, but at times it is rather ridiculous. And truly, I have nothing to do with it myself – it is all Kelly's doing."

"Perhaps so," said Georgiana, "but you are still the muse."

Elizabeth giggled. "Oh, please do not call me a muse! That is positively unbearable."

* * *

The Darcy carriage deposited Georgiana at Cavendish Square, but not before Georgiana had asked Elizabeth to return later with Fitzwilliam to dine, for she would not have many more opportunities to see her brother and sister before they departed for Pemberley. She came into the house to find the drawing-room empty, and went up to the nursery, finding both her husband and daughter there.

They were seated together, Caroline in her father's lap. She was speaking to him far more loquaciously than Georgiana had ever heard her speak to anyone, although not more than one in four words sounded as though it was an actual word. It was a scene that could not but bring tears to her eyes, and she watched them silently until Matthew looked up and caught her presence in the doorway. He smiled faintly, but his countenance was troubled. Georgiana wondered what had been spoken of, during his appointment at the Admiralty, and whether Lord Stretford had yet been successful in ensuring there would not be a court-martial, but she was loath to interrupt this moment between father and daughter, and did not ask. Interruption came from another quarter, though, when Harlow cleared his throat behind her and said:

"The Earl and Countess of Brandon, Lord Fitzwilliam, The Honourable Edward Fitzwilliam, and Mrs. Fitzwilliam have come to call."

Georgiana promised she would be down directly, and then asked, "Caroline, would you like to go and see your great aunt and uncle, and your cousins Andrew, Edward, and Marguerite?"

Caroline had not spent much time in company with any of these people, but she responded to her mother's positive tone and nodded her head yes. Matthew rose with her, carrying her as they followed Harlow down the stairs.

"What is the matter," murmured Georgiana, slowing her pace so that Harlow would be well ahead of them.

"Lord Melville said there is not to be a court-martial," he said.

"Oh, thank God."

"I do not think God had anything to do with it, Georgiana."

This was all the conversation they had opportunity for; in the drawing-room were all the happy Fitzwilliams to greet them, and many embraces to be given. Georgiana's aunt held her the longest and the tightest, saying, "Thank God for this, oh, thank God. I am so glad and so relieved for you, my dear." It was Andrew who brought her to tears, though – Andrew, the one person among the group who could not be described as fully happy – when he embraced her and whispered, "I am so glad for you, cousin."

Caroline did not speak nearly so much as she had done with Matthew in the nursery, but she was surprisingly comfortable in such a large group of adults. It helped, certainly, that her cousin Edward kept making silly faces at her, prompting effusive giggles every time he did it, and his wife Marguerite called her a "belle enfant" in an accent that seemed to mesmerise the child. She stayed with them until exhaustion put her on the verge of fussiness and Mrs. McClare was summoned to take her up, leaving the drawing-room to more adult conversation, all of a light tenor.

Lord Stretford invited the Fitzwilliams to stay to dinner as well, and the addition of the Darcys to the party only increased their conviviality. Yet there were two of their number not so convivial as the rest, and Georgiana could not but occasionally look to Matthew and Andrew with concern. Matthew she could speak to when they all retired, but she felt the loss of that closeness she had briefly known with her cousin. Of course she could not wish for the cause of it to be returned, but she did vow to be a better friend to Andrew, for she had briefly felt the same pain as him. It occurred to her then that he ought to be introduced to the Duke of Bolton: Andrew had been serious for as long as Georgiana could recall and the duke had only become so as a widower, but they now had similar temperaments and much in common.

She could not worry over a cousin so much as a husband, however, and she was glad when her family began calling for their carriages so that they could retire. Matthew said nothing as she climbed into bed with him, and after the moments of silence that followed, Georgiana asked, "What did Lord Melville say, about the court martial?"

"There will not be one, because I was not formally in command of the Icarus. There was some peculiarity to the way Admiral Bourchier wrote up the order, and the Admiralty considers me to have been a supernumerary in the event. I will therefore not be tried."

"Good, then we may put that behind us and retire to Stanton Hall for a few weeks."

"No, Georgiana, it is not good. A ship was lost, and I was the senior naval officer present. I _should_ have been tried, and I presume I _would_ have been, were it not for my uncle. His hand was surely in this."

"It was," confirmed Georgiana. "He – your uncle – he did not want you to have to go through that."

"You knew of his intent, then? You knew and said nothing to me of it?"

This had been another secret she had kept from him, Georgiana realised, but it was so insubstantial compared to the greater secret that pressed upon her mind that she had not thought of it as such until now. Tearily, she said, "I am sorry, Matthew, I did not think to. I am used to – well I am used to having private conversations with Lord Stretford because for a time it was just the two of us here, but you are right, I should have told you."

His countenance softened. "Oh, dearest, it is I who should be sorry. I did not mean to distress you."

Such solicitude made her weep all the more, although thankfully he did not ask her to explain her tears. She wept in his arms until she fell asleep that night, but her sleep was not so deep that his nightmare failed to wake her.


	11. Part 1, Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Matthew said nothing the next morning of this latest nightmare, but the look of his countenance was such that Georgiana did not feel it the right time to broach the subject. After he had wished her a good morning in a tone that did not sound very convinced of its goodness, he said, "I wish to speak to my uncle this morning about his _intervention_ – I am sorry to leave you alone in the drawing-room."

Georgiana nodded. "I had intended to call at Curzon Street, anyway. They were planning to leave for Longbourn later today, and then on to Pemberley."

"Of course. Ordinarily I would wish to join you, but this is a conversation I would rather have done immediately. I am sure we will have ample opportunities for visiting with our brother and sister in the future, though."

"Yes. It will be so nice to see them more frequently," Georgiana said. In truth she was glad of Matthew's absence, for while she did wish for him and Fitzwilliam to become better friends, she was hoping to have a chance to speak to Fitzwilliam privately once more before they were parted. She was glad of where they had left things after their conversation in the square, but so much had happened since. Then she considered the other private conversation that would occur while she made her call, and wondered what would come of Matthew confronting the man he thought to be his uncle. Would Lord Stretford see this as the right time to tell him of his parentage? Georgiana hoped so. Sometimes it seemed as though the old ache of Matthew's death had been replaced in her chest with the tight knot of her secret, the sort of secret a wife should never have to keep from her husband.

Mrs. Annesley was feeling well enough to join them all at breakfast, but Georgiana, still wishing for privacy in her call, encouraged her to stay in the house and either sit in the drawing-room or return to her bedchamber for more rest.

"I think I shall sit in the drawing-room for a little while – I have been shut up in one room for entirely too long," Mrs. Annesley said, reinforcing her return to health by speaking without the slightest sniffle.

"I fear we must leave you alone there, at least for a time," Matthew said. "Uncle, I wish to have a private word with you in your study."

Lord Stretford nodded, and asked Harlow to have a fresh pot of coffee brought there. He gave Georgiana a strong look, perhaps thinking she had at least hinted to Matthew that this conversation should be had – if not outright told him Lord Stretford's secret. She returned his gaze with equal strength, hoping to indicate that she had not shared the secret, but it ought to be done that morning.

Georgiana's thoughts were still occupied by the conversation occurring in Lord Stretford's study when she arrived at Curzon Street and was informed by Miller that Mrs. Darcy was _indisposed_ in the nursery with young Master Charles, and Mr. Darcy had taken Master James and Master George to the park to ride their ponies. He invited her to sit in the drawing-room, but feeling that some better opportunity for private conversation with her brother would come of it, Georgiana said she would take her carriage to the park and see if she could find the little riding party.

In this she was successful: even in the vastness of Hyde Park it was easy enough to pick out a group with little boys riding ponies, although there was one more than she had expected. As her carriage drew closer, Georgiana saw that the third child was George Nichols, and that his mother and a groom also formed part of the party. At the moment, Georgiana could think of few sights more heart-warming than that of three little boys trotting along on their ponies, and she alighted the carriage with a smile.

Fitzwilliam saw her, and called out, "Down to a walk, boys," to the children circling the adults. He looked at Georgiana expectantly and she said, "Elizabeth was up in the nursery, so I thought I would come and see how my nephews got on. I had not expected them to be trotting so soon!"

She waited until the ponies had passed her and then walked up to stand by her brother as he said, "They are all quick studies – they enjoy it very much, so much there is an uproar in the nursery if we are not out here every day. It is fortunate we have not had the same rain of the last few years, or I expect they would be careening off the walls."

Georgiana laughed. "The ponies appear delightful little creatures, although old Buttercup will always be my favourite."

"They are from your county: New Forest ponies. These three are among the shortest of their breed – just over twelve hands. They're narrow enough in girth for the boys to ride now, but the breed is sturdy, so I am hopeful these will last them until they're ready for proper horses."

"I shall have to get one when Caroline is older. I fear I may not be so good an instructor as you, though."

He smiled. "I am sure you would be, but you are also welcome to bring her up to Pemberley when she is ready. I purchased a third to ensure we would have a spare for the twins' cousins, at least until Charles is older."

Knowing her brother, Georgiana thought it probable that there would be some five or six ponies in Pemberley's stables ere long; his enjoyment in teaching others in equestrian matters would ensure all of his children and any visiting cousins would always be properly mounted. It was nice, as well, for George Nichols to have such an opportunity. Most children of his birth would learn to ride eventually, but with their fathers keeping nothing but plough horses and perhaps a hack, they certainly would not learn at his age.

"You may do one more trot," said Fitzwilliam to the children, "then it will be time to return to the house."

Each boy urged his pony up into a trot, treating their aunt once again to the delightful vision of three little boys bobbing up and down as they made their circle. They did this for some minutes and then were commanded by their instructor to come down to a walk, then that instructor said to Mrs. Nichols and the groom: "Will you take the boys and ponies back? I will stay and have a little walk with Lady Stanton."

They replied that they would, and Georgiana took up her brother's proffered arm.

"I am glad you came and found us," he said. "You and I have not had a chance to speak privately since Matthew's return, and I must tell you that I am tremendously grateful for both for you, and that I might have a second chance to get to know him better. I promise you I will take it. Now that you are both here in England, I hope we shall have frequent visits between Pemberley and Stanton Hall."

Matthew – was he still confronting Lord Stretford over the court martial? Or was he at that moment learning the truth of his parentage? The sudden reminder made Georgiana hesitate before she answered. "I would like that very much."

"Georgiana, is all well with you? You have not seemed quite so happy as I would have supposed you would be, to have Matthew returned to you."

"It – " she longed to speak openly of what had happened on the Icarus, but Matthew had not authorised her to share it, and Georgiana felt that knot within her grow still thicker, to be keeping another secret " – the nature of what happened on the Icarus is not such that it _can_ be entirely happy. It has been difficult, for Matthew."

"You need not tell me more if it discomfits you," he said. "But you do know I am always here for you."

Georgiana nodded, tears forming in her eyes.

"How is your health?" he asked, glancing down at her belly.

"It is good. I am very thankful that it has always been good, save my recovery from Caroline's birth."

"And your own birth," he reminded her.

"Yes, but that I cannot recall."

He gave a faint chuckle, but then his countenance sobered. "Charles's birth unfortunately brought it strongly to mind, for me. I can still remember watching our parents' concern for you. It was my turn, I suppose, to experience the same thing."

Fitzwilliam had been away at school when she was first born, Georgiana knew, but he had been recalled; his parents had wanted him to know his sister, however briefly. "I wish mama and papa – particularly mama – could know that I grew up to have a strong constitution, that I am now a mother myself."

"Papa did – the strength of your constitution, at least. He spoke of it to me often, and he was exceedingly grateful for it. But yes, poor mama – I do wish she would have had longer to know you."

* * *

Harlow had a perturbed expression upon his face, when he opened the door to Lord Stretford's house. This was due to the upheaval that had occurred within while Georgiana had been walking with her brother in Hyde Park, then visiting with both brother and sister in their drawing-room. She was to learn of what had caused this upheaval in stages.

The first was to hear from Harlow that Lord Epworth had come to call and was seated with Mrs. Annesley in the drawing-room. Georgiana entered that room hesitantly, unsure of how long Lord Epworth had been there and what conversation had occurred within.

However what she found was two people holding hands – hands that were withdrawn, upon her entrance – and smiling in such a manner that could only mean one thing. They both rose, and Mrs. Annesley said, "Lord Epworth, may I present my friend, Lady Stanton?"

He bowed, Georgiana gave the best curtsey she could at her present size, then he said, "Mrs. Annesley has given me the great happiness of accepting my hand in marriage."

"Oh, how wonderful!" cried Georgiana, unsurprised but still very delighted that it had all now come about. She expected Lord Stretford had spoken to him a day or so ago, and wondered if a note had been sent round to Lord Epworth, to inform him that Mrs. Annesley was over her cold and alone in the drawing-room. "I am so very happy for you both."

Neither Matthew nor Lord Stretford entered the drawing-room in the time before Lord Epworth took his leave. Conversation during that time was centred on the happy event, which was to take place in a month's time, namely so Mrs. Annesley's trousseau could be completed; Lord Epworth intended to get a special licence. The wedding continued to be the topic of choice even after he left, when Georgiana moved to sit next to Mrs. Annesley, embracing her friend.

"Oh Georgiana, how has fate been so good to both of us?" she cried. "A week ago we were both widows, and now the impossible has happened."

Georgiana smiled. "Your impossible was a _little_ less so than mine, I think."

"True, but I do believe it had some assistance. Did Lord Stretford speak to him?"

"He had intended to."

"I owe him a debt that I can never repay, then."

"I am sure he was glad to do it, to assist a friend of mine," replied Georgiana. As she said it, she realised Lord Stretford might have had additional motivation, beyond Mrs. Annesley's connection to Georgiana: a peer of the realm and a woman beneath him in station must have felt familiar to Lord Stretford. He could not change the past, but perhaps it had given him some peace to ensure the same mistake was not made by another.

"I hope – " Mrs. Annesley's face fell " – I am sorry, I just recalled it. I should have told you immediately, but everything has happened so quickly. Your husband and Lord Stretford quarrelled earlier. I know not what they said – I do not want to know – but it was clear their voices were raised. Then Captain Stanton left – he said he was going for a walk, but not where."

Georgiana sighed. She had hoped the conversation would go better but was not at all surprised that it had gone poorly. Even if they had merely spoken of Lord Stretford's intervention in the court martial, Matthew had an unmovable sense of right and wrong, and it was clear he felt it wrong that he had received preferential treatment. It was entirely possible he had walked all the way to the Admiralty and demanded a court martial. She nodded and thanked Mrs. Annesley for the intelligence, but knew her spirits were now too disturbed to sit with a woman who had just become betrothed to the man she loved. Georgiana excused herself and went down the hall to Lord Stretford's study, knocking softly on the door.

Just as softly, she was told she could enter, and she did so to find the man behind the desk looking strikingly old. Lord Stretford was of course of an age to be Matthew's father, but he had always possessed such vitality, such strength, that his hair seemed to have greyed prematurely. Now, he looked aged and defeated.

"You ought to leave, Georgiana. It would not do for you to be seen consorting with the enemy," he said, taking a substantial sip from the brandy glass before him. "You were right, that Matthew would have wanted to know. He wanted to know twenty-five years ago."

"I am so sorry – I did not mean to cause strife between the two of you," said Georgiana, tearfully.

" _You_ have done nothing wrong. I could not in good conscience expect you to retain such a secret. If I had thought there was the slightest chance Matthew was alive, I think I would not have shared it, but that is my own mistake, just as I am to be punished for the mistake I made more than thirty years ago."

"Please do not call it a mistake, for I cannot think of it as such. There would be no Matthew, without it."

"My only hope is that in time, he is able to see it the way you do. Perhaps I should not have told him at this time – it is much, to lay on a man who has endured what Matthew just endured. But when he came in, asking why I had seen fit to stop the court martial, I thought I ought to be completely honest with him, ought to tell him that it was because I would not see my son go through such a thing. I laid too much on him, I fear. This was a thing to tell him about when the seas were at least a little calmer."

"And yet you never did," Georgiana thought, but did not say. What she did say was: "I think he will come around eventually. It is a tremendously shocking thing for him to learn, and perhaps I was wrong to encourage you do to so this soon after his return. You were correct in wanting it to be the right time."

"I think you know as well as I that left to my own devices, I might have considered the right time to be never."

"Did the secret not weigh on you?"

"It did, but not so heavily as you might think. There were times when I almost had myself convinced that what Matthew believed was the real truth – that his father was cruel to him for no reason at all, and his uncle was the kindly helper. It is strange, what the mind can do in such situations," he said. "It would all come rushing back at times, and then the guilt would weigh doubly on me. I have never felt it like I did today, though, to see the look of, of _betrayal_ , on Matthew's countenance."

"Do you know where he went?" Georgiana asked, worriedly. She and Matthew had been married for more than three years, but this situation was so without precedent and they had spent so little time in London together that she had no notion of where she might search for him.

"No, but he will return. He may not speak to me, but he will return for you, at least."

* * *

Matthew did return, some hours later. Georgiana had gone upstairs to see Caroline until the child had been ready for her nap, and then retired to her own bedchamber to endeavour to rest her body, if not her mind. He entered – quietly – and his expression was so troubled Georgiana burst into sympathetic tears almost immediately. She sat up in the bed and waited to see if he would speak.

"You knew," he said.

"I did. Matthew, I am so sorry – I never wanted to keep a secret like this from you. He confessed it when we thought you were dead, and when you returned, I told him he must tell you. I would not have such a secret between us."

"Please do not mistake me, Georgiana. I do not blame you." He turned to close the door behind him, but made no move to approach her. "I merely wanted to know whether I had to inform my wife she had married a bastard."

"Matthew!"

"If it troubles you, I will not use the word again, but it is the truth. Perhaps not legally, but in the eyes of society, that is what I am. And you deserved to know before you consented to marry me."

"It would not have changed my answer, or my opinion of you. If you could forgive my utter foolishness with George Wickham, it would have been cruel indeed for me to jilt you over that. In truth, I am glad of it. I would rather Lord Streford's blood ran in our children's veins than that of – of Reverend Stanton."

He crossed his arms. "You mean the blood of a man who laid with his brother's wife, and that of an adulteress?"

"At least they are kind and loving."

"Does not the man I thought to be my father have some reason for his cruelty?"

"There is never an excuse for cruelty towards the innocent," said Georgiana.

"You do not know man's potential for cruelty, for darkness."

"Yes, I do," she said, softly but firmly. She had learnt it first at the hands of George Wickham, and seen its penultimate result on the deck of a captured slave ship.

Georgiana made to rise from the bed to go to him, but he murmured, "no, stay," and strode over to her, slipping into bed beside her and embracing her. His chin came to rest on her shoulder, and it was in its trembling that she understood he was weeping.

"Everything I thought I understood about the world has been completely upended."

He was not just referring to his parentage, Georgiana realised. His own naval world had suffered the same thing.

"Everything except you and Caroline," he whispered. "You are the only true things in my life."

Georgiana did wish for him to reconcile with Lord Stretford, but she understood it would take time – possibly much longer than she had thought – for the shock to pass and forgiveness to be possible. So she merely held him there, grateful at least that all was out in the open, that she was no longer required to keep such a secret, and only said, "Matthew – I – I am not perfect, and nor will be our children."

"No, of course not, and I do not expect that of you, dearest. But you have always been true to me, in every way possible." He inhaled deeply. "Georgiana, all that time, all that time I thought he was being helpful, I thought he saw that his brother was being unfair to me and wished to aid me. And all along, it was because of him: ev – every beating, every day I spent locked in the attic, every time the man I thought to be my father looked at me and told me of my faults, or plainly favoured David and Jacob, all of it, my supposed uncle knew why, and he never told me. Now I learn that he only did so because you required it of him."

By the end of this, he was speaking in a whisper and weeping thoroughly, Georgiana with him, for while she had understood that his childhood had been so unhappy as to drive him from home before he had reached his ninth year, he had never said what precisely had caused this unhappiness, the full extent of the abuse he had suffered at the hands of a man who had loathed him merely for what he was.

"Is it just because your real father did not tell you? Or did you wish he would have done more to protect you?" she asked.

He drew away from her and looked her in the eye, his countenance contemplative. "Perhaps. I had not been thinking of it that way, but you are likely right. He was always so kind to me – I used to wish he would take me in. He had George, of course – his legitimate son, I suppose I know now – but I was always so happy, when we would visit him. He would spend so much time with me, and praise me." His voice faltered, and Georgiana's heart ached for him, to have spent his childhood starved for such a simple thing as praise.

"I suppose I know now that he could never have taken me in. If anyone would ever have guessed, seen I resembled him more strongly than his brother – for now that I know, I see that I _do_ – if it would have got out, the scandal would have been unfathomable. An illegitimate son he could have acknowledge, but not one by his own brother's wife."

Georgiana hoped that admitting this was the first step towards him forgiving his father, but she did not think it wise to push for more so soon. Gently, she laid her hand on his cheek and said, "I think you should stop thinking of him, for now. Think of yourself, look back and understand that there was nothing you ever did wrong, apart from being born. You were always good, always worthy."

He nodded, but his expression was sceptical, and it pained her. Without the mutiny, perhaps he would have found such words easier to believe, but it had shaken a confidence more fragile than she could have ever understood. Would that he had quit the navy after capturing the Polonais! Would that she had not encouraged that last voyage!

"I must speak of him a little more, just to plan our future. I would like to travel to Stanton Hall as soon as we may. I know it would be proper to take leave of your relations in town, but tomorrow morning would be my preference. I have reserved two post-chaises – if you wish to make calls to take your leave we can set out in the afternoon, and stay over at an inn. We should do so anyway, now that I think on it, so the journey is not too taxing for you. For tonight, I have requested trays for us to dine here."

Many concerns raised themselves in Georgiana's mind, but she quickly determined they would simply have to be dealt with in whatever way possible. If Matthew was not even willing to face Lord Stretford over dinner, it was truly best to put some distance between the two of them.

"It will only need to be my Fitzwilliam relations, that I must take my leave of. The suddenness of our departure can be explained by your need to go to the country and convalesce." Georgiana ran her hand down his side, where his ribs were still too prominent for her liking. Realising that the Fitzwilliams could solve the most pressing of her problems, she added, "I am of the hopes that they will allow Mrs. Annesley to stay with them until she is married. She cannot stay by herself with Lord Stretford, but nor do I think it quite appropriate for her to return to Lord Epworth's house, and I do not like the thought of her being married out of hired lodgings."

"Is she to be married, then?"

"Yes, Lord Epworth made his proposal today."

"I am very glad for her. She is a good woman, and she has been a friend to you in difficult circumstances," he said. "It is the one good thing that has come out of this day."

* * *

Georgiana called on her Fitzwilliam relations at the earliest polite hour the next morning and found them surprised but understanding regarding the Stantons's sudden departure. They were surprised, as well, by the news of Mrs. Annesley's betrothal to Lord Epworth, but they had all – save Marguerite – come to know Mrs. Annesley well during her first tenure as Georgiana's companion, and expressed their happiness over Mrs. Annesley's good fortune. This happiness was such that Georgiana did not even have to ask about her staying with them, for Lady Ellen observed that she could not very well be expected to leave her betrothed to go to Stanton Hall, and must therefore need somewhere to stay. She would be very welcome to come and stay with them, Lady Ellen said, and when Georgiana left the drawing-room, Lady Ellen and Marguerite were planning a shopping expedition of some magnitude, to see to Mrs. Annesley's trousseau.

Smiling, she stepped into the entrance-hall and thought that things could not have turned out better, as regarded Mrs. Annesley. She might come into her marriage as a former companion, but she would do so being well-acquainted with Lord Stretford and after being taken about the town by Lady Brandon and her daughter-in-law. These things, Georgiana hoped, would do something to smooth her way in society once she became Lady Epworth.

She felt the lightest touch on her shoulder, and started.

"Georgiana," said Andrew, who had apparently followed her into the hall. "I am sorry to startle you. I wished to ask – do you think Lord Stretford would mind if I called upon him, after you are gone? I enjoy his conversation and I would like to further the acquaintance, but I am not sure whether he would wish for it. I know he has many demands on his time."

"I do not think he would mind at all," said Georgiana. "I know he is a powerful man, but to his connexions he is all affability."

She had a chance to see this statement proven more readily than she would have thought, for she met Lord Stretford on the steps to his house as she returned there. He bowed and seemed as though he intended to pass her by without speaking, but she said, "Lord Stretford, please wait."

"I do not wish to make things difficult for you, Georgiana."

"They will not be – Matthew is not a tyrant. He knows where my deepest affections and loyalties lie, but I am sure he understands as well that you supported me through the most painful time in my life, and I will endeavour to bring about a reconciliation between the two of you, once a little time passes."

"God send that you will be successful," he said, his voice thick.

"I hope so," she said. "I am glad to have encountered you, for there are some things I had been hoping to speak with you about, but did not think I would have the opportunity."

"Please, tell me what they are."

"First, I must thank you for your intervention with Lord Epworth. You have given the greatest happiness to someone who very much deserves it."

He nodded. "You are welcome, although in truth I did very little. Epworth was devastated to see her gone from his home. I merely promised to claim a connexion to my family through you, to help ease the way for them."

"Still, you have my thanks," said Georgiana. "She will be going to stay with the Fitzwilliams, once we leave, and that is where we come into the other matter I had hoped to speak with you about. My cousin Andrew asked me if he might call on you, while we are gone."

"Of course he may – we are already acquainted, so I do not see why he should have any hesitance on the matter."

"You are a powerful man," Georgiana said. "That can cause others, even future earls, to be – cautious – about furthering their acquaintance with you, for fear of overstepping their bounds."

He gave a faint, rueful smile. "Perhaps that is why I know so few people willing to be as frank to me as you are."

"Perhaps," Georgiana said. She had not always been so frank with him, so unintimidated by him, but on the worst day of her life, he had held her there on the floor where she had collapsed after Lord Melville's departure, and once two people had shared such a moment, it irrevocably changed the tenor of their relationship. She looked back now and thought of how equally grieved he must have been, how his embrace of her must have sought as much comfort as he had given.

"I would be happy to see your cousin call – he is a worthy young man and has excellent conversation. Indeed, I think I shall invite him to dine, so there is no question as to my wishing for the acquaintance."

"If you do so," ventured Georgiana, "it would be nice if you also invited the Duke of Bolton. I had been hoping to bring the two of them to a closer acquaintance."

"Are you intending me to form a widowers club?" he asked, drily.

"I – " she blushed " – I have an understanding of what you all have suffered, to lose the loves of your lives. I can understand wishing to avoid the company of those who are happily married. Indeed, I believe that is why my cousin wishes to call on you."

"I understand, although as you know, the love of my life was not my wife," he said, his tone more sincere. "I got on well with Bolton's father, but I will admit to have little pursued an acquaintance with his son, despite our being neighbours. Is he not still in mourning, though?"

"He still dresses as such, but I do not think he would object to a dinner invitation where it was to be a quiet party," Georgiana said, secretly thinking that a man willing to make an offer of marriage was quite well enough out of mourning to dine with his neighbour.

"I will do as you ask, then, The society of those young men cannot be the same as that of the young man I wish to be returned to me, but I think some little substitute will help." He claimed her hand, and squeezed it tight. "God bless you, my daughter. I ask far more of you than you have of me, when I ask you to look after him while I cannot, particularly while you are in such a condition."

"He is back with us," she reminded him. "Things may be difficult – they may be difficult for a very long time – but at least there are possibilities. With life, there are possibilities."

"Amen to that," he said. "Godspeed, my child."

* * *

Georgiana soon learned that there was one more leave-taking that was necessary before they could set out, for once Caroline had been bundled up to go outside, her expectation was that her destination was the square. On being informed that she was to get into the first of the yellow post-chaises with her parents rather than seeing her friend, she burst into tears, appeared on the verge of a tantrum, eyed her mother warily, stood up straight, and said, "Pwease go park see 'mewia."

"That was very prettily done, Caroline," said Georgiana. "We will go to the park for a little while, so you may say good-bye to your friend. You will see her again in a month or so."

The duke and his daughter were prompt in coming out, and while he could readily comprehend what the news of their going to Stanton Hall meant, Georgiana feared little Amelia did not understand her friend was to be parted from her. They stood and watched the children play – capering about since Georgiana had not brought the leathern ball – an awkward threesome. Someday, Georgiana hoped, things would be less so among the three of them, but she did not think it was likely to be anytime soon.

Matthew had told the postillions to bring the post-chaises around to the entrance to the square after half-an-hour, and the time passed quickly for the two little girls, who were tearful at being parted and still more tearful when they comprehended that Caroline was to be taken aboard the carriage. Once they were inside, Georgiana opened the window so that Caroline could have a last glimpse of her friend, and said, "Young ladies say good-bye, to their friends."

"Good-bye, Amewia," whimpered Caroline. She then clambered onto her father's lap for a comforting snuggle, prompting her mother to wonder if she was now to be considered the stern parent, or whether the choice had merely been because Caroline's younger brother or sister was presently taking up too much space in Georgiana's lap.

They travelled only so far as Guildford, Caroline asleep in her father's lap for most of the journey, and took rooms at the Angel. Matthew had never stayed overnight there, but he pronounced it to be capable of the best dinner of the town's five hostelries, and their accommodations lived up to this promise. They were treated to a fine dinner, spacious rooms, and dry sheets, which are about all any traveller has a right to wish for.

Georgiana was grateful for their stopping over during such a short journey; she fell asleep quickly and slept until she was awakened violently in the night. She was too stunned at first to even register the sharp pain in her cheek. What she did notice was that Matthew – without crying out, this time – was thrashing wildly in the bed. Beginning to comprehend what had happened, that he had struck her in his sleep, her first instinct was to protect her child, to flee the bed. Then she sought to wake him, but calling his name was fruitless, and she did not dare try to touch him, so she resorted to pouring a little water from the nearby ewer onto his face, and this was finally successful.

He woke spluttering and startled, then a look of shame overtook his face, to have to be awakened by his wife in such a manner.

"Matthew – "

"I'll not attempt sleep again tonight, dearest," he said, sharply. "You need rest. I am sorry to have disturbed you so."

He rose from the bed and aided her back into it, and then seated himself in a chair by the window, where it appeared he intended to pass the remainder of the night. Thus it was that Georgiana did what she had not thought she would ever do again: fell asleep facing the empty side of her bed, with tears streaming down her face. Only this time, half of that face was throbbing.

* * *

When she woke, she found he had moved the chair nearer the bed, and he was staring at her with an exceedingly troubled countenance.

"Georgiana – I – " he reached out to touch her cheek and she drew back, for it was still painful.

"You are afraid of me," he whispered, "and you have every right to be."

"No, Matthew, no. It's just – it hurts, that is all. You were asleep. I know you did not mean to do it."

"But still, I did it. I struck the woman I had vowed to always protect."

She rose from the bed and went to embrace him. "Please do not let it trouble you. 'Tis just a bruise – I will be fine."

"We cannot sleep in the same bed anymore, particularly while you are with child. Thank God I did not harm the baby – please tell me the baby is well."

"Perfectly well," she said, taking his hand and slipping it between them so that he could feel the child's morning exercises. "But Matthew, it has been every night, that you've had these nightmares. Do you wish to speak of them?"

"No," was his blunt answer, which wounded her. She had been plagued with nightmares early in their marriage, prompted by having seen George Wickham, and although it had embarrassed her to share them, still she had done so. Perhaps she was being unfair in asking, though, for what else could he be having nightmares about but the mutiny, and he had said he only wished to speak of that once. Matthew left her embrace to dress, quickly and quietly, and then stepped out of the room, saying only that he would wait to hand her down the stairs.

Georgiana's cheek continued in its dull throbbing, but she thought little of it until Moll entered and said, "Oh – milady – oh no," her countenance shifting to horrified sympathy.

Only then did Georgiana go to have a look at herself in the little looking-glass above the washstand. It appeared far worse than it felt.

"It was not – Captain Stanton did not do this intentionally, Moll, please believe me in that. He had a nightmare, and he struck me in his sleep."

"You're sure, milady?" Moll asked, sceptically.

"I swear it to you, Moll – this was an unfortunate accident," said Georgiana, thinking ahead in her journey that day. "Surely you must know Captain Stanton's goodness, his kindness – he would never harm a woman intentionally. Others may not know this so well, though, and I would appreciate it if you ensure that was known among the servants when we get to Stanton Hall."

"I sure will, milady. Don't want e'erybody thinkin' the captain's been knockin' you about at all, especially in yer condition. I'll have Bowden and Taylor help me – between them and me we can be sure they all know right quick."

"Thank you, Moll. You must be so happy to finally be returning to your husband."

"I am, milady. Been missin' him somethin' fierce," said Moll, brightening.

Unfortunately, Moll's was not the last concern for her welfare that Georgiana had to face. After the Stantons had broken their fast and gathered up their family and servants to leave, they went down to the entrance-hall to await the post-chaises. They had not been there a minute before the proprietor entered, bowed to Matthew, and said, "Sir, they need ye in the yard – there's an issue with one'a yer carriages."

Matthew nodded, rose from his seat on the bench beside Georgiana, and left the hall. The proprietor seated himself in the space Matthew had just vacated and murmured to Georgiana, "M'lady, if'n ye want, I'll have him bound by the magistrate. Strikin' a lady in yer condition – it's awful. I ain't seen the like in three and twenty years a'runnin' this inn."

Once again, Georgiana was made to convince another that the injury had been done to her without intent, and without the benefit of having served the Stantons for years, the proprietor was not so easily convinced of Matthew's character.

"I promise you, he has always been exceedingly gentle with my person, and he is truly a kind man," Georgiana concluded. Then her mind went to whatever was occurring in the yard and she asked, in fear, "You do not have men seizing him up now, do you? Please, you must have them release him immediately. Please!"

"Nay, I just told my boys'a keep him talkin'. Not as I'd be takin' up a baronet without bein' sure I ought'a do it."

Georgiana exhaled, relieved. The proprietor stood and bowed, but before he left, Georgiana said, "Wait – I just wished to say you did a good thing. I did not need your assistance, but someday there may be a woman who does. I hope this does not discourage you in the future."

"It won't, milady. It ain't likely the next time'd be an accident, too."

It was perhaps too much to hope that Matthew did not notice he had been drawn away on purpose. Once they had finally gained the post-chaise, Bowden closed the door – glowering at his master as he did so, although Moll must have told him of what had happened. Only then did Matthew say, "So was I drawn away so the proprietor could see to your safety?"

Georgiana nodded. "He would have had you bound by the magistrate, if I had asked."

"Good. I wish – I wish there were more of such men in the world."

They spoke of it no more, but the silence was filled by Caroline, who knelt on the seat beside her mother and pointed at her cheek. A child of her age knew much clumsiness and therefore many bruises, and so the girl spoke with authority when she said, "Mama huwted."


	12. Part 1, Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Oh, Pemberley! How well she looked! Elizabeth had traversed the lane approaching the house far more times than she could count, but that first sight of the house still never failed to stir her soul. Nor could she see it after an absence of any length without recalling the first time she had seen it: then, it had been a handsome house to be admired. Now, it was _home_.

A home she was happy to reach after the ordeals of travelling with a family of five and its associated servants. With the weather seeming to make a true improvement of late, the roads were better than they had been in previous years, but the three older boys in their procession of carriages were still more boyish and boisterous with age. They would run from the nursery carriage with exuberant energy at every coaching inn, and so what should have been a rapid change of horses was instead an extended effort to round up three young boys determined to get into as much mischief as possible. Darcy had threatened to get a collie for such purposes, but this had the opposite effect, for the twins thought it would be delightful to acquire a collie. Thankfully, Darcy's subsequent threat – that three days' worth of pony-riding would be withheld as a punishment, once the ponies finally reached Pemberley – had achieved the desired effect, at least so far as their parents could see. What chaos occurred within the carriage could not be told.

The Darcys shared their post-chaise with only their youngest son, and Charles slept soundly on a blanket laid down on the floor. Elizabeth _thought_ his coughing had lessened since they had arrived at Longbourn and stayed two nights there, but it could not be told whether this was merely hopeful thinking. She was glad her husband had been so willing to return here, for what was to be a comparatively short stay. Darcy had agreed readily, understanding that he could have no claims on his sister's time when compared to a resurrected husband. He would certainly wish to be in town when she gave birth, though, and Elizabeth did wish to be there for her sister, since Georgiana had had no family beyond her own husband during what had been the very difficult birth of her first child. She deserved all the support they could give her for the second.

Yet if Charles's health did improve now that he was returned to the country, Elizabeth was not sure she could prioritize her presence during her sister's confinement over the health of her son. Mrs. Nichols – God bless her – had somehow managed to maintain her supply of milk between the twins and Charles, and so he might be left with her, but Elizabeth knew herself well enough to know she could not be parted from her son over such a distance and for such a time. And so she had approached her father during their sojourn at Longbourn and asked if they might stay there, on their return to town. It was near enough that they could be summoned to town once Georgiana began her lying-in, yet it meant they did not need to live in the fug of London for a more extended period. To his credit, despite the disruption the boys would once again cause upon his quietude, Mr. Bennet had readily agreed.

Surely Mrs. Reynolds and Mr. Parker had not planned on delays induced by rambunctious children, but they still had all of Pemberley's staff out in the drive to greet their family as they all alighted the carriages. Most of those emerging from this retinue made their way up to the nursery, some weary, some hopping up the stairs and asking with impatience when the ponies were going to arrive. Once there, they were greeted with the rest of the menagerie that children of country houses are wont to acquire: two youthful spaniels who ran up to the twins with their ears flopping, unaware that they had nearly gained a brethren collie, and a cat who slunk around in the corners and eyed the boys with suspicion. The cat had been a kitten – one of a litter from the stables – when last the twins had inhabited the nursery, and at the time had been of a mind with James and George as to the fun that could be had of a length of ribbon. Older and perhaps wiser now, it appeared to have eschewed those days, and yet had not slipped away into the vast number of hiding spaces that could be found in such a house.

Its canine companions had no such qualms, and were roundly embraced by the boys before they all began cavorting about. Elizabeth might have reprimanded them but for the suspicion that she had been much the same at their age. The only difference was that she had been paired with the sedate Jane and eventually the quiet Mary in the nursery, not an older boy and a twin, in addition to two dogs not quite out of the puppyish age.

Eventually she left them for dinner, assured by Miss Sawyer that they could be handled, and wondering if perhaps they should have _two_ nurseries, one for the somewhat older children and the other for the very youngest, who were in need of more sleep and could stand to be more distant from the whooping cough or other such ailments, if they came again.

She and Darcy dined quietly and privately in the sitting room that adjoined their apartments. They retired for bed quietly, too, both of them exceedingly content to be there, to be intimate there. Their children were upstairs in the nursery, of course, and the servants about the house, and yet it was possible here to feel as though it was just the two of them, a sensation Elizabeth could never feel in town. Alone, pressed up against the bare, warm skin of the man she loved, alone in the quiet country. She sighed, sleepy, sated, perfectly happy.

"I am so glad to be home," Darcy murmured.

"I had been thinking exactly the same thing, my love."

* * *

The tide of simple contentedness at returning to the house must necessarily ebb, and both of the Darcys allowed it to do so the next morning. There were things to be done: both master and mistress of the estate needed to see how it had been getting on in their absence. For Elizabeth, an hour spent with Mrs. Reynolds in the housekeeper's room and another hour to balance the household accounts completed her business, but her husband's would take far longer, for he always liked to ride out with his steward to view the land upon his return.

Elizabeth was surprised, therefore, when he sought her out in the nursery later that day and asked if she would like to go for a ride.

"Have you not been out enough for your taste?" she asked. "Or are you perhaps seeking your wife's admiration of your stamina? I assure you, I have never found it wanting."

He chuckled. "I thought we might ensure _you_ are ready, so we may go out as a family when the ponies arrive. And I am still trying to decide between the colt and the filly."

"Why do you not just keep them both? I daresay we can afford it."

"I promised Sinclair I would sell him whichever one I did not prefer."

"Did you promise that before or after the St. Leger?"

"Before, but a promise is a promise, and we did not name a price at the time. I am sure Sinclair will pay according to the animal's value, and – "

He was interrupted by James, who tugged on his coat and said, "Papa, is Cloud here?" Behind him stood his brother and George Nichols, with hopeful expressions on their countenances.

"Not yet, James, but I promise we will tell you as soon as he arrives, although you must remember that he will need to rest after such a long journey, so he will not be ready to go for a ride straightaway."

James nodded. He was not prone to tantrums, but his face screwed up in a piteously mournful expression, and then he began to quietly cry. Darcy patted his shoulder.

"There, there, James. I will have Buttercup saddled tomorrow, and you may all take turns on him. Would you like that?"

James nodded again, and was cheered by both the promise of this and by the spaniels, who – as dogs are wont to do – sensed his upset and came over to knock him down and then lick his face until he giggled.

Elizabeth left him in this happy attitude and went to change into her riding habit, then walked out to the stable with Darcy. Saddled there was her mare, Flora, who whickered upon sighting her mistress, and the filly Darcy had spoke of. Filly she might have been, but there was little femininity about her, particularly standing next to pretty, delicate Flora. Although only two years old, she was nearly a full hand taller than the mare, with a grey coat so dark it was nearly black, a deep girth, and a wary, intelligent eye.

Peregrine was her name; her father was Kestrel, and either she or her half-brother was to replace him as Darcy's particular mount. Kestrel himself was still comparably young, but after another of his sons, Osprey, had won the St. Leger by eight lengths, Kestrel had seen his stud book fill entirely, and had been retired from riding. Darcy did not care to see his own horses race, but he had put no such restrictions on their progeny, and the additional income had been useful. Although Pemberley's harvests had improved since that horrible "year without a summer," as they had called it, they were still not what they had known before that year. The weather had improved, but it was still a relief to have this other source of income; it might, sometime that year, come to be supplemented by the leasing of Fitzwilliam House. The renovations on the house had been complete for some months now, but given how vexing the previous occupants had been for the Darcys, they were in no rush to see it filled. Eventually, they hoped the right family might come along, but for now it sat empty.

Darcy aided his wife up into her saddle, then with a rare – for him – use of a mounting block, sprung up on Peregrine's back. The filly promptly snorted and commenced prancing across the yard, bucking twice in the bargain. Several comments came to Elizabeth's mind, the most ready of which was, "Are you quite certain that creature is safe to ride?" She held them in, however; she had known her husband as a horseman for long enough to trust his judgement in his cattle. Flora, thankfully, was of excellent temperament, and she watched indifferently as Darcy took Peregrine up in a tight hold, her hindquarters quivering and her nostrils flaring. Her feet clip-clopped across the yard as the Darcys exited the stable and took to the lane that led along the stream.

"I'll need to give her a good gallop, once she's warm," said Darcy. "She's very like her father – can hardly think straight until she's had a good blow."

"Is Gannet not the same?"

"Nay, he's calmer. Still fast when he's asked for it, but only when he's asked for it. Osprey is more like him; it's how he managed the crowds at Doncaster. Some of Kestrel's foals even more sensitive than he is, and it seems Peregrine is one of them."

"Seems you ought to keep Gannet then, if he's more like Osprey."

"This is what I think sometimes, but then, I am not intending to take either to Doncaster. I'd like to keep the one I most enjoy riding, and that is likely to be the faster of the two."

"And who is the faster?"

"I hope we are about to find out," he said. "You are well?"

"Quite well. You may leave us – Flora and I will endeavour to catch up."

He nodded, gave the reins just the slightest bit of slack, and said, "Get on, then," to his mount. For all her prancing antics, Peregrine's start out of this was slow, but within five strides she was tearing down the lane, and Elizabeth thought her every bit as fast as her father. She encouraged Flora into a canter, Darcy's back and his mount's thundering hindquarters growing more and more distant as they followed at a more comfortable pace. A reluctant horsewoman, Elizabeth had no notion of her horse's potential for speed, and no desire to find out. Flora's canter was exceedingly smooth – rather like the rocking of the hobby-horse in the nursery – and eventually it brought her to where Darcy and the filly were standing, this Diana of horses blowing hard through her nostrils and looking like – as promised – she was now able to think straight.

"And who is the faster?"

"She is," said he, "and no want of bottom on her. She'd go for miles, if I let her, and I will, once she's old enough for it."

"So you'll keep her, then?"

"I think so. At Sinclair's age, Gannet would be a better mount for him," said he. "And I do have a penchant for spirited females who have half a mind to throw me."

Elizabeth laughed heartily, an amused smile still on her face as they walked on, to the point where the trees alongside the stream opened up to one of the most spectacular views available from Pemberley's grounds: the high rocky mount of Hanson Edge towering over all before it. Elizabeth breathed deep and felt that pure contentedness return to her, that she should live in a place of such beauty, that she could be married to a man who – despite growing up here – could still turn his gaze upon the same sight and show deep appreciation upon his countenance.

* * *

In the days that followed, the men of the neighbourhood initiated that ritual of calling upon Mr. Darcy in his study – requiring his wife to vacate it, for she often passed the time with him there. First among them was Mr. Sinclair, who lived the nearest and was among Darcy's closest friends in the neighbourhood, despite the vast difference in their ages. It was from him that Darcy learned of the most concerning news that had taken place in their absence, and he shared it with his wife once those early calls of Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Houlton, and Mr. Watson had been completed.

Elizabeth had gone up to the nursery to pass the time, rather than retiring to her own study next door – a study marked with Lady Anne Darcy's peculiarly ostentatious décor – and returned much later, hoping to learn the news of the neighbourhood. She entered and seated herself in one of the leather chairs there, wondering why masculine rooms were allowed so much greater comfort, and found her husband frowning.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Jim Brown died, last week."

"Oh," Elizabeth said, instantly sharing his concern. Jim Brown had been a labourer in Lambton, living in a one-night cottage on the village waste with his wife and three surviving children. Three of six or seven, as Elizabeth recalled. He had been one of many who had prompted concern over the past few years, with crops not growing as they had used to do and therefore less labour required to sow and reap them. Darcy had done much to create projects requiring labour when there was not enough on the farms themselves, and because of this the parish church was in the best repair it had been for some centuries, while elsewhere in the village and on Pemberley's grounds little repairs and improvements had been made. It had been a challenge to keep them all employed, however, for in addition to the local labourers, some displaced men from Derbyshire manufactories had come to settle there. Jim Brown was among those who held – and was given – a claim to the first available jobs, for virtue of being born in the village, and as such his family had always been able to scrape by, his wife taking in some sewing and washing to supplement his wages. With those wages gone, it would be a struggle for them to survive.

"A collection was taken up, to aid his widow – I am glad we are back so I could give to it now – but we will need to keep a close watch on the family in the future. I expect they will need to draw on parish relief."

Elizabeth nodded. "I will take them some food and necessities tomorrow, to aid them before the collection is complete."

He rifled through his desk drawers until he produced a handful of shillings, pennies, and farthings. "Give them this, as well. God bless Sinclair, but he is more apt to be thorough than quick about the collection."

Those who knew Elizabeth Darcy as an icon of London fashion would have been astonished at the dress she wore the next morning, a faded old garment that had known some years of wear by Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She received no argument from Sarah over her request to wear such a thing, however, once she had told Sarah of her destination. Without anyone ever saying it outright, Elizabeth had come to understand that the former home of the Kelly family in Ireland had not been dissimilar to the present one of the Browns, although thankfully the Kellys were doing better since taking up tenancy of a smaller farm on the Pemberley estate. Sarah knew Elizabeth's destination would have a dirt floor, and moreover that a great lady could be intimidating when dressed in her finest; this was beneficial when she was among her equals or superiors in a London drawing-room, but of little use when wishing to give sympathy to those on the margins of society.

That the floor was dirt could hardly be seen, when Mrs. Brown let Elizabeth into the little cottage; the windows were small and naught but waxed cloth, and there was no fire in the little stone fireplace. Mrs. Brown looked exhausted, but she let Elizabeth in with a grateful expression, eyeing the basket Mrs. Darcy carried on one arm and the blankets in the other with gratitude. The footman, Samuel, had aided his mistress, carrying still more baskets and a sack of oats, and when these things were deposited upon the floor and he was dismissed, Mrs. Brown said, tearily, "God bless 'eee, m'lady, oh God bless 'eeee. Will 'ee sit?"

The only place to sit was at the two rough-hewn stools placed at an equally rough-hewn table, and Elizabeth did so. Mrs. Brown sat with her. In the corner a child began to cry, and another child whispered, "Quiet! 'Tis t'lady Darcy."

"It's quite all right," said Elizabeth, peering into the dim corner, where four eyes blinked at her from the darkness, and the third child was lying prostrate on a thin flock mattress on the floor, weeping silently now. "Jemmy, Laura, I was very sad to hear about the death of your father. I know it is very upsetting for you all, and must be particularly so for little Robbie."

"'Eee ain't cryin' fer that m'lady," said Laura, matter-of-factly. "Cryin' a'cuz 'eeee's 'ungry."

Elizabeth's heart sank. She thought of how deeply pained Georgiana had been, when they had thought Matthew dead, thought of how poor little Caroline had cried for her father. These children had no such luxury; nor did their mother, sitting across the table with nothing but a rough black strip of fabric tied about her arm to show her mourning.

Jemmy stood up. He was a thin, lanky young boy of eleven or twelve years of age, who had the potential to achieve his father's strength if only he could get enough to eat. "We ain't gon' be 'ungry fer long. I'm gon' work like pappa did."

Elizabeth swallowed the lump in her throat. "That is very brave of you, Jemmy."

"Ain't brave m'lady," he said, then looked concerned that he had contradicted such a lady. "I mean, I's old 'nough. Did t'harvest last two years an' I been helpin' pappa when there's 'nough work fer both 'a us. I'm man a' t'house now an' I got'a keep us fed."

"Well, I have brought you some food and other things, to help for now," Elizabeth said.

"Aye, Jemmy, look'it how good missus Darcy been to us. Oats for t'rest 'a t'winter and blankits and more."

"If there is anything in particular you need, please let me know," said Elizabeth. She slid the little calico purse she had sewn for the money across the table. "My husband and I thought some ready money would also be helpful."

Mrs. Brown looked as though she wanted very much to open the purse and count the coins, but she merely thanked Elizabeth even more profusely. Elizabeth wept a little during the carriage ride back through Lambton, not even able to be charmed by a village that had very much lived up to her aunt's fond memories. She vowed that the Browns would not know any more hunger, and then decided to stop at Berewick Hall on her way home, hoping that a visit with Mrs. Sinclair might be more effective in cheering her.

Her friend was home and delighted to see her, rising to embrace Elizabeth as she entered the drawing-room and calling immediately for tea, so as to prolong the visit. Mrs. Sinclair was older than Elizabeth, but as she was her husband's second wife, the gap between their ages was not so substantial as it was between Darcy and Mr. Sinclair; a friendship had formed between them very early into Elizabeth's tenure in the neighbourhood.

"Oh Mrs. Darcy, I was so glad to read your brother was not dead as had been thought. Poor Lady Stanton must be so relieved."

"She is," replied Elizabeth. "It was a tremendous relief to us all."

"And how have you been? How was your journey back?" asked Mrs. Sinclair, surreptitiously eyeing Elizabeth's dress. Although Elizabeth tried to avoid showing away when dressing for events in their neighbourhood, everyone here read the London papers and expected her to be fashionable. And truly, she should not have made a morning call in a dress such as this, but she had not been thinking of such things until Mrs. Sinclair recalled her to it. She felt her face grow a little warm. "I have been well," she said, and then, her voice graver, "I was just in Lambton, taking some items to poor Mrs. Brown. So I must apologise for my dress."

"Oh – oh," said Mrs. Sinclair. "Well you and I oughtn't stand on ceremony, I think. I'm glad you stopped over."

Elizabeth nodded, and smiled. "How have you been? How are your family?"

"Quite well, all of us. Clarissa is learning French, and so everything is bonjour this and mademoiselle that," she said, referring to the present Sinclairs's only child, a daughter of eleven years of age. Mr. Sinclair had two sons by his previous wife, but both lived in town and the one Elizabeth had met could only be described as terrible company.

Elizabeth laughed. "I wish I had learned French and German. I never expected I should have friends with whom I might like to converse in other languages."

"I learned both French and Italian, and I doubt I can remember twenty words together," laughed Mrs. Sinclair. "Now, what of neighbourhood news? You have not missed much, I do not think. The youngest Miss Houlton is engaged to be married. Some manufactory owner in Derby. I was a little surprised Mrs. Houlton would let her go to such a man – she's overparticular about such things, in my opinion – but he's said to be rich as Croesus, which never hurts a man's suit."

Although the Houltons were generally good company, this overparticular nature of Mrs. Houlton's had prevented Elizabeth's becoming as intimate with her as she was with Mrs. Sinclair. That, and Mrs. Houlton's single-minded focus on the task of marrying each of her three daughters off, which had recalled Elizabeth to her mother a little too well for her to enjoy Mrs. Houlton's company as much as her closer female friends.

* * *

Elizabeth had been of the hopes of receiving her very favourite caller the next day, for the Bingleys had sent a note the previous afternoon indicating they would be making the journey out. But although the morning dawned clear, during breakfast a strong whipping wind picked up, bringing forth a round of thunderstorms. Disappointed, Elizabeth went up to the nursery to find many of its occupants equally disappointed, for they knew Buttercup could not be ridden in such weather.

She endeavoured to get James and George to focus on their hornbooks, but they knew the ongoing reward for naming all of the letters was to continue to get to ride their ponies every day, and on this day when there would be no ride, they were sullen and listless. Seeking to cheer them, she got out the alphabet blocks that had been purchased to supplement the hornbooks, and invented a game wherein the boys named all of the letters on a block and then it was added to an ever-growing tower of blocks. Eventually, of course, the tower toppled, and such a game of building and destruction was to be considered great fun for children of their age. They were giggling and smiling by the time little Charles crawled over and tugged on her skirt, saying "ma-ma" with a plaintive, hungry little face.

She took him behind the dressing-screen and nursed him, frowning when his mouth slipped from her breast so that he could cough. It did not, thus far, seem as though the trip to the country had improved his health, although at least it was no worse. Then she set him back down upon the floor, where he found the alphabet blocks of interest: not for the letters, of course, but for stacking and occasionally chewing upon. Elizabeth wished that he had a constant companion, as the twins did, and the twins also played with George Nichols, the difference in their ages mattering less as they all grew older. Eventually they would all be of an age that Charles could be included in their play, although at present he seemed quite content all alone with his blocks. In lieu of actual ponies, the older boys had determined to take turns upon the hobby-horse, and James was at present rocking it vigorously and calling it Cloud.

Elizabeth left the nursery with a smile upon her face and went down to the library, hoping her husband might have gone there to take up their favourite occupation on a day such as this one. He was not there, but she determined to stay and read anyway: she had read _Frankenstein_ when it had first come out and it was all anyone could speak of, but she had read it too fast, too greedily, and had thought to take it up a second time here in this room that had been perfectly formed for a slow, thoughtful read. It truly was delightful, this room, the comfortable leather chair in which she sat in a very unladylike slouch, the elegant little oil lamp providing extra light on the dark morning, the sumptuous leather cover of the book in her hands, bound to match the rest of the library since that first time she had read it in boards. It was a strong contrast to the horror taking place on the pages within that cover, and she read, engrossed, until a hand touched her shoulder from behind the chair just as a streak of lightning flashed in the sky outside.

She screamed. It was not an elegant scream: it was a startled, wrangled sort of yelp that prompted chuckles from her disturber.

"I am sorry to have scared you," Darcy said, "although I believe you did most of that deed yourself."

Elizabeth laughed. "You are correct."

He picked up the second volume and peered at the spine. "Ah, re-reading?"

"Yes, I read it much too quickly the first time."

"Last year was such a good year for prose, between this and the new Scott, and _The Elliots_. If this year equals it, I shall be delighted," he said. "But I did not come here to speak of literature – I came to tell you the Bingleys have arrived."

Elizabeth dropped her book on the side table and stood. "How on earth did they get through all of this weather? And why?"

"They set out early in the morning before it started to turn, and by the time it worsened they were more than halfway here, so they thought it better to press on. They were mostly able to halt at inns to pass the storms, so Jane and Charles are just a bit sodden – their driver and footman fared worse, I'm afraid."

"Their servants are being cared for?"

"Yes, Mrs. Reynolds ordered hot baths for all. I insisted they stay over tonight even if the weather clears."

"Did they bring Bess and Emma?"

"No – the girls remained back at Clareborne, thankfully. I cannot imagine travelling in such weather with little children."

"You cannot imagine travelling in such weather with little _boys_ ," said Elizabeth. "James almost assuredly would have found a way to cover himself in mud from head to toe."

He laughed. In truth although Jane had been encouraging Bess towards more ladylike deportment, the child's natural tendencies would not at all have precluded a romp through the mud just as good as any of the boys could manage. Elizabeth loved her for it, just as she loved little Emma's happy, less strident demeanour. Emma had been born Amelia, but when Bess had proven unable to say the name, Amelia's elder sister had decided upon this nickname, and it had stuck. It provided a nice balance, Elizabeth thought, since Bess had been named after her aunt and garnered a nickname early on to avoid confusion between the two of them.

The Bingleys' usual rooms were not the ones they had lived in during their longer residence at Pemberley. In the bedchamber of that former apartment, Jane had borne Amelia, and the birth had been very difficult for her. Whether Dr. Alderman's intervention with the forceps had been necessary – had saved Jane's life – could never be told, but it had affected Jane severely. Not wanting to give her sister a reminder of that event, Elizabeth had begun putting them up in a different suite of rooms.

It was to these rooms that Elizabeth strode, knocking on the bedchamber door. The door opened, and she was the immediate recipient of a damp embrace from her sister. Elizabeth held Jane tight, and exclaimed, "Oh, I am so glad you are here, but not that you had to travel in such weather."

She pulled back to look at Jane. Darcy's description of sodden was accurate as regarded Jane's hem and the straitened ends of her curls, and the rest of her dress showed patches of dampness; surely there had been umbrellas involved in what must have been dashes to shelter at the various inns they had stopped at, but umbrellas could only do so much in a downpour. Elizabeth was glad Mrs. Reynolds had already seen to hot baths for her sister and brother.

"I am glad to be here, too, Lizzy. I feel as though I have not seen you in ages."

"Oh, me too, dearest Jane. You must have your bath and warm up, and then we will have some tea and a nice cosy talk."

They did so, Jane wrapped in a dressing-gown and the two of them seated in the little sitting room that formed part of this apartment. Children were their first topic – it could not be otherwise, with two young mothers who adored both their own children and their nieces and nephews. Teeth, words, various ambulatory developments, the boys' ponies, and little Charles's health took up the better part of an hour. From there the next natural topic was mutual acquaintances, and this was when Jane informed her that Caroline Harrison was in the family way and due to give birth in the summer.

"Oh, is she?" asked Elizabeth. "We saw her in London, but she was not showing yet."

Thankfully, Jane did not request details of the Darcys's encounter with her sister-in-law. Her countenance held a hint of trouble, however, and Elizabeth thought she knew the cause of it. Poor, dear Jane had come down to London for Elizabeth's lying-in, but at the critical moment she had looked so petrified that she had worried her sister deeply, drawing Elizabeth's focus from what she most needed to focus on. Darcy – thank goodness for Darcy – had understood what was happening and quietly escorted Jane from the room, but no-one at Caroline Harrison's lying-in was likely to be so intuitive nor so sympathetic.

"Jane – you will not need to attend Caroline when she has the baby, will you?" Elizabeth asked, reaching over to clasp her sister's hand.

"No. I spoke to Charles of it, and he assured me that I do not need to go. Louisa will be there, and he may go down for a few days, but I will stay at Clareborne, so there is no pressure on me to be in the room."

"Good, I am glad he understands," Elizabeth said. The Bingleys had struggled at first, to reconcile after what had happened to Jane, but they seemed to have regained their marital harmony. "I think you should bring the girls and come to stay with us, though. I am sure we will be here for the summer."

Jane smiled warmly. "I would like that very much, Lizzy."

* * *

The Bingleys were given a very fine dinner and an evening of convivial conversation in the drawing-room thereafter, one that had them all staying up rather late in enjoyment of each other's company. They could not be convinced to stay longer than a late breakfast, however, for although the storms had brought sleet later in the evening, they had cleared to a bright, lovely day, and the Bingleys were eager to return to hearth, home, and especially children.

Elizabeth went up to the nursery after seeing them off in the drive, guiltily realising as she did so that she had missed Charles's morning feeding, after already having missed the previous evening's. Thankfully at his age he did not always need one overnight, but unlike the twins at that age, he showed no interest in any other sort of solid food.

Mrs. Nichols approached her and caused Elizabeth's guilt to deepen, for the nurse said, "Ma'am, pardon me for speaking so, but I – I don't know if I can keep nursing little Master Charles at the same pace. There's a lump, in my left breast, and at first I thought things was just a little stopped up there – I don't know if the same happens for you, ma'am, but it does for me. This one's different, though – firmer, I'd say, and the skin around it is odd. I stopped nursing Master Charles from it, just in chance there's something wrong, and this morning I hardly had enough milk, in the right breast. He's quite hungry at this age."

"I am so sorry," Elizabeth said, troubled at the thought that something was potentially wrong with Mrs. Nichols's breast, both for the nurse and for the little boy who had been suckling it. "I wish you had called for me this morning."

"I knew your sister was here, and I didn't want to call you away from her, ma'am, but I just wanted you to know that I can't help at the pace I was."

"It is a pace I never asked of you, although I am thankful that you did it," said Elizabeth. "If it affects your health, you must stop. We were grateful that you _could_ nurse a child, just in chance things went badly with our firstborn, so far as I was concerned, but I've borne three now. And I would like to have Dr. Alderman see you, when next he makes his rounds in the neighbourhood – he may advise you to stop nursing altogether, and if that is the case I want you to understand there will be no impact to your position here."

Mrs. Nichols nodded, looking relieved. "Thank ye, ma'am."

Feeling troubled, Elizabeth went down to her husband's study to see if he was there; he was, also looking vaguely troubled. He was holding a letter, and said, "From Georgiana – they have gone back to Stanton Hall."

"Is anything amiss?"

He sighed. "I do not know. I have a sense that things are not well, between her and Matthew. When we walked together in Hyde Park, she said things had not been easy for him, since he returned. She would not say more, though, and I did not press her. I just told her I was always there for her, if she needed me."

Elizabeth came over to where he was seated at the desk and laid her hands on his shoulders. "You did the right thing. It is a very strange circumstance, that they have been through. If they are having difficulties because of it, the interference of a protective older brother is not likely to help matters."

"I still do not see how there could be difficulties, though. She was devastated at thinking him dead. No-one could doubt how she loves him."

"Yes, but do recall that when he was dead, he was perfect, and now that he is alive, he is not," Elizabeth said. "And I expect there are complexities related to _how_ he returned. There must be a reason why none of those details have been shared with us. If there are difficulties, though, I think they will get through them – where love is strong anything can be weathered."

"Very true," said he, sounding more at ease.

Elizabeth leaned over to kiss him. "Now, I know your natural tendency is to worry."

"A tendency I have been trying very hard to fight, as you know."

"Indeed I do," she replied, glad to have this reminder herself that worry did no good. Until Dr. Alderman saw Mrs. Nichols, there was no reason to be concerned over what might be an innocent lump caused by maintaining a milk supply for several years. "How may I help you with this battle? Physical activity, I think, would be of benefit. Shall we go for a ride?"

He rose and drew her into a tight embrace, kissing her again. "Yes, my love, but that is not the only physical activity I shall want today."

"I am perfectly happy to oblige you in whatever might be of benefit," was her arch reply.


	13. Part 1, Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Matthew was still having nightmares. Georgiana did not know if they happened every night; upon their return to Stanton Hall he had ordered a bed moved into his dressing-room, and so he was not always loud enough to wake her. He did on some nights, though, and the trick she had learned at the Angel, of pouring water on him, had been several times repeated. His reaction was always the same: embarrassment and reticence.

Even in the daytime, he seemed not himself, although Georgiana was also coming to realise that just what he ought to have been on land was ambiguous. They had only spent a few weeks together at Stanton Hall before sailing to the Mediterranean; the rest of their time on land had been comprised of travel, of staying in hotels and other peoples' houses. What Matthew intended to _do_ , to fill his waking hours here, was as-yet undetermined.

He had not thrown himself into estate management, this much was certain. Georgiana had been the primary correspondent of Mr. Wallace, their steward, while they had been in the Mediterranean: with so much else to occupy him in commanding the Caroline, Matthew had gladly ceded this responsibility to her. Now that they were returned, it seemed she was to remain the authority, so far as Mr. Wallace was concerned. It was Georgiana he came to, when one of their tenants was having difficulty meeting his rents and sought to give up one of his fields; it was Georgiana who authorized the field's being picked up by another tenant; Matthew had merely nodded and signed the papers that had been put in front of him, with little seeming comprehension or care for what they contained.

They had taken to using the library during the day. With Taylor's renovations it was a lovely, comfortable room – not so grand or so extensive as that of Pemberley, of course, but beginning to be stocked by the Stantons's purchases abroad, and by Fitzwilliam's ordering for them certain volumes he considered requisites for any such room. Matthew usually took up a book, but not what Georgiana would have expected of him – no treatises on navigation, no naval histories – instead, he read novels or poetry. _Read_ was perhaps not entirely accurate; mostly he sat and stared at his book or across the room, very occasionally turning the pages. He was thus on this as every other day and Georgiana sighed, rose, and walked over to the window, contemplating the estate. It was earning enough to make the purchase price acceptable, but Georgiana had grown up with an ambitious father and then brother, both always seeking to do more, to improve.

"I think if we put in a ha-ha just there, we could graze sheep much closer to the house without any real impact to our use of the park."

"Hmm?" was Matthew's only reply.

"I think we could build a ha-ha and use some of the park to graze sheep," repeated Georgiana.

"If you think that a good course, please go ahead."

Georgiana sighed again. Perhaps she should have been glad of a husband who gave her so much freedom, who made no objections to anything his wife determined to do within or without the house, whether building a ha-ha or establishing an apiary, meant to eliminate their reliance on West Indies sugar. Then she heard the little pattering of steps that represented the one person who could bring a smile to the countenances of both of her parents. Caroline tottered into the nursery, followed by Mrs. McClare.

"Beggin' your pardon, captain-sir, milady, but she wanted to see ye somethin' fierce," said Mrs. McClare. Always a young woman of a cheerful demeanour, she had been far more cheerful since they had arrived at Stanton Hall and she had received permission for her husband to come up from Portsmouth and live in a room beside the nursery. It was not usual, for a house to have married women in such positions as Rebecca McClare and Moll Taylor held; then again, Georgiana thought, nothing about Stanton Hall was what she could call usual.

"Do not worry yourself, Mrs. McClare," said Georgiana. "We will be glad of her company."

Not awaiting any further permission from anyone, Caroline tottered over to where her father sat and awkwardly began to climb into his lap until he set his book aside and hoisted her up there himself.

"Papa," she said, burrowing into his chest until he wrapped his arm about her.

"Yes, dearest Caroline?" he asked, but received no answer.

Georgiana watched them with a strange ache in her chest. She could not recall the last time he had called her dearest Georgiana, nor the last time they had enjoyed such basic physical intimacy. Living in different rooms had caused such a distance, between her and Matthew, a distance he did not seem inclined to make up during their waking hours.

The baby within her stirred, and she felt too agitated to remain. "I think I shall go up, to rest," she said.

He looked over to her. "Do you want me to walk you up?"

"No, I'll not disturb the two of you. Bowden can attend me."

* * *

They dined quietly. At least Matthew was still eating voraciously, still regaining his strength. The Stantons had two cooks: Mrs. Beeton, who had conveyed with the house, held more seniority and was called Cook by rights, while Rahul had come into the Stantons's employ in India. Rahul knew his mistress' palate was highly desirous of the spiciest of curries when she was in the family way, and there were two dishes on the table Matthew knew well enough not to touch. He took generous helpings of Cook's fish and mutton, however, and they both told Norton to send down praise for the honey cake. The apiary – and the direction to use honey instead of sugar – had not gone over well with Cook, but it seemed she had finally adjusted and found recipes that made good use of the sweetener. Or perhaps she had been towed along by Rahul, who had provided a bowl of delightful little balls of fried dough soaked in honey and scented with rose water.

Although they preferred the library for daytime use, they still retired to the drawing-room after dinner. The little battered square pianoforte that had been Georgiana's constant companion during her travels was housed in the library, and here lived the beautiful Clementi grand that had been Fitzwilliam's gift to her some years ago. Georgiana approached it and said,

"Why do we not have a little music? It has been so long since we played together."

"I would rather listen to you play, Georgiana."

It went this way every night: never had Georgiana convinced him to so much as pick up his cello since they had returned to the house. She did play, though, one of her old Scarlatti pieces that made her think of an older, happier time, those musical evenings at Lady Tonbridge's house during her first – and only – London season. Her mind wandered as she played, and Georgiana considered whether that time _had_ been truly happier. She had been so young, so confused by her own feelings, by the strength of her attraction to Matthew. Looking back, all was possibility that had ultimately been fulfilled. Yet she would never have expected where that fulfilment would lead, how her marriage would ultimately be tested.

Matthew was gazing at her fondly when she finished – perhaps in his own reminiscences – and Georgiana decided she must follow after her daughter's initiative and took a seat right beside him on the sofa, leaning up against him. He responded by wrapping his arm about her and murmuring, "I do not deserve you."

It was not spoken in the tone of any other man who would say such a thing, that light-hearted tone Georgiana had heard Fitzwilliam use in saying such things to Elizabeth, a tone of compliment, gratitude, happiness. It was spoken in the tone of a man who fully believed what he said, and Georgiana responded by saying, firmly, "Yes, you do," and drawing even closer to him.

* * *

Matthew did not have a nightmare that night – at least one that could be heard by his wife – and at breakfast the next morning she had the idea that getting out of the house might do him some good. It was a beautiful day, and if she had not been very pregnant Georgiana would have proposed a ride. Instead she said,

"'Tis a fine day out – why do you not go shooting? You are past season for most birds, but not for woodcock and snipe."

"Shooting? I cannot – " it dawned upon his countenance, then, that he owned more than sufficient land now to hunt game " – oh, I suppose I can. But I believe there is some sort of certificate or something that I need."

"That is done. Mr. Wallace took care of it while we were in the Med, so it would be in place for this winter. He can take you down to meet Dalton, the gamekeeper," Georgiana said, then realising that Matthew was surely inexperienced in certain matters, "Dalton manages the dogs as well. I am sure he would be willing to walk out with you and show you how to command them – and help you find the birds."

This was sufficient to convince him, and he went out for much of the morning, returning to the library wearing what Georgiana suspected were the only sporting clothes he owned. He looked mildly pleased.

"I did manage to bag two," he said, "although I will not tell you how many I attempted to shoot in order to do so."

Georgiana smiled. "I am sure Cook will be pleased to serve them at dinner this evening."

He came over to where she sat and leaned down to kiss her cheek. "I am glad you made the suggestion. It was good to be out of doors, to have some practise in shooting."

Good as well, Georgiana thought, for him to take some enjoyment out of the estate, out of this land-based pastime. In the autumn he might begin inviting the other men of the neighbourhood to join him – they had been calling occasionally to welcome him back and in most cases to meet him for the first time, since the Stantons's previous time here had been of such short duration. Matthew had been avoiding naval society – he had not gone down to Portsmouth since their return – so perhaps new friends, new land-based friends, could help him move forward with his life.

This elevated mood of theirs lasted only briefly, however, for Norton came in and handed Matthew a letter that had been delivered that morning, while he had been out. Matthew held it only long enough to view the hand it had been written in, and then set it aside without opening it, his countenance grave again. The letter was franked, and it was Lord Stretford's hand.


	14. Part 1, Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Dr. Alderman spent most of his time at his practise in Matlock, attending the invalids there for the spa waters, but he also made regular rounds in the neighbourhoods he serviced, to see whichever of the nobility and gentry had concerns over their health. His speciality, if it could be called thus, were those diseases that brought people to spa towns – Mrs. Bennet now swore by his Special Tonic For Nervous Complaints – but he was the only physician in the area and would treat anything from measles to childbirth.

Elizabeth had written to him, asking that he stop at Pemberley to see her nurse during his next rounds, and when he arrived, he was shown up to Mrs. Nichols's room by the nursery. Elizabeth had given such details as she had about Mrs. Nichols's concerns in the letter, but he asked for that lady's own description of the lump on her breast. It was given, in flustered and embarrassed accents, and then he nodded and said,

"I'll need to do an examination. Mrs. Darcy, will you stay as chaperone or would you rather one of the maids do so?"

"Whatever Mrs. Nichols prefers," said Elizabeth. "If you would feel more comfortable with someone else, let me know who you want."

"If ye don't mind stayin', ma'am – "

"I do not mind at all," said Elizabeth. She closed the door.

Mrs. Nichols's clothes were those of a woman who had no maid to change her: a dress with a bib front and stays a la paresseuse. She needed no help from Elizabeth as she undressed with shaking fingers, setting her stays beside where she sat on the bed and letting the dress pool about her waist. Elizabeth, deeply sympathetic to how discomfited she must be, sat beside her on the bed and clasped her hand as Dr. Alderman began his examination.

He was thorough, but his countenance was detached, professional, without a hint of lasciviousness, which eventually began to put both women more at ease. The examination covered both of Mrs. Nichols's breasts, and it was evident when he reached the lump, for he spent much more time there. When he had finished, he produced two little pewter cups and asked Mrs. Nichols to produce milk from each of her breasts. After this was done, he indicated Mrs. Nichols should put her dress back on, staring into each of the cups as she did this.

"There is a chance it is merely an issue related to the production of milk," said he. "However, I must warn you that there is a possibility it is a cancer of the breast."

Elizabeth did everything in her power to keep from gasping, for poor Mrs. Nichols took this news with impressive fortitude, quietly nodding. Her eyes were frightened, though, and Elizabeth clasped her hand again.

There was a pounding at the door, then, which startled them all. Dr. Alderman was nearest it, and he opened it, saying, "We were not to be dis— "

"Doctor, you're needed at Berewick Hall immediately," said Samuel, one of the footmen.

Dr. Alderman nodded and picked up his medical chest, saying in a rush to Mrs. Nichols, "You must let your milk cease. Once it does, I will be able to make a diagnosis."

Confused and concerned, Elizabeth watched him rush out of the room, following Samuel. She wanted to flee after them, to ask Samuel what was happening at Berewick that required the physician's appearance, but she could not leave Mrs. Nichols alone after such as had happened in the last quarter-hour. The nurse's eyes were still frightened, but her countenance was schooled in an expression of calmness.

"Mrs. Nichols, whatever happens – whatever it is – please do not worry over your position here. We will adjust things so you need not attend any of the children at night. You should get more rest."

"Thank ye, ma'am – ye've always been so kind to me," Mrs. Nichols said, and it was this that finally broke her composure. She bowed her head and began to weep, and Elizabeth put her arm around the nurse's shoulders. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I shouldn't in front of ye, but I'm scared. For me, but more so for George. I'm all he's got left."

"Nothing is certain yet," said Elizabeth. "I hope and pray that it is merely related to your milk, but if – if it is not, I promise you need have no worries for him, or for your care. We will look after you both."

This prompted further weeping from poor Mrs. Nichols, but she did at least seem relieved. How very fragile the world was for some children, Elizabeth thought, children of widows like Mrs. Nichols and Mrs. Brown. How very difficult it must be as a mother, to be the only one left to protect them, the only one to provide for them. To know one illness, one accident, would leave them alone in the world. Thank God Georgiana had not known this sort of worry; even in those most awful of days, at least she had known Caroline would always have a home of comfort and love, even if she was orphaned.

Elizabeth told Mrs. Nichols to rest for the remainder of the day and went to the nursery to inform Miss Sawyer she was doing so. All of the older boys were out riding, the ponies having arrived to great jubilation two days ago, and Charles was playing on the floor by himself. He took his mother's appearance as a sign that he should be hungry, and she took him behind the dressing-screen to nurse him. It did not soothe her as it usually did, for her mind was roiling over what was happening at Berewick, over Mrs. Nichols's health, and most particularly over the health of the boy in her arms. Had he been nursing from a poisoned breast all this time? Was it the cause of his own poor health? Although he had not grown worse, it seemed he would never be like the twins, who showed every indication of growing up to be robust, strapping young men that would resemble their father.

That man found his wife in the nursery, settling Charles back down amongst his toys, and gave her a look that indicated he wished to speak to her. He looked even more troubled than Elizabeth felt, and the cause of this was revealed to her when she followed him into the hall.

"Mr. Sinclair is – he is dead," Darcy said, his voice faltering. "I am sorry, I should have told you more gently – I'm just too shocked to think properly."

"My God," was all Elizabeth could manage to say.

"His heart gave out. That is all I know at this time. A servant came over with the news."

Elizabeth sought his embrace, her thoughts on poor Mrs. Sinclair, poor Clarissa. She had just been thinking of widows, unaware that the urgent summons from Berewick was because her friend had just become one. Mr. Sinclair was older than his wife, certainly, but he was not too far past his sixtieth year, and had always been in good health, regularly going out hunting and shooting. It made her pull her own husband even closer, made her think that awful thought: how many years would _they_ have together?

"Should – should we do anything to help?" asked Elizabeth. She had known very little death in her life, particularly not one such as this, that of a friend's husband. "I do not want to impose, but I do wish to help."

"I think your presence would be helpful to Mrs. Sinclair right now. If I am wrong, I do not think anyone would think badly of you for calling to offer your assistance, least of all her."

Elizabeth had been thinking the same thing, and was glad to have it reinforced. She returned to the nursery to give strict instructions to Miss Sawyer that she was to be sent for if Charles needed her, and changed into a grey dress before she made the carriage ride over to Berewick.

If her own emotions were still of shock and grief, Mrs. Sinclair's were such many times over. She was seated in the drawing-room with her daughter, who was weeping copiously. Her mother was either more stoic or more shocked, for while she did not cry, she seemed lost and confused. Elizabeth sat beside her and took up her hand in sympathy, which finally prompted Mrs. Sinclair to say, "I am glad you came. I – I just – I don't know what to do."

"I am here for you, whatever you need," whispered Elizabeth.

"I – I am sure he would have named your husband executor of his will. We need to find it. I should write to his sons. And there is the coffin and the burial and – and preparing his body," Mrs. Sinclair said, her voice wavering.

"Do not let any of that worry you," said Elizabeth, grieved that her friend felt the stress of such things. "We will help with everything. Let me send for Mr. Darcy. I believe Ainsley the cabinet-maker in Matlock also arranges funerals, but my husband will know if there is someone better. They will arrange for the coffin and the burial and – and everything else."

"I don't want them to prepare his body – I don't want strangers touching him like that."

"Then we'll do it ourselves. Someone will surely know what to do."

There was a little secretaire in the room, and Elizabeth drew out a piece of paper and wrote,

"Darcy,

"I should have thought to have you come with me in the first place. There is much to be done and it worries poor Mrs. Sinclair. Can you please come, and bring Charles? I believe we shall be here for some time and there are other things I must tell you of, but suffice to say for now that Mrs. Nichols can no longer nurse him. Martha can come to help mind him. And if by chance there is anyone on the staff who has prepared a body for burial before, their assistance would be invaluable. Mrs. Sinclair does not want strangers to do such work. I will help her, but we need someone to tell us what to do."

"Love,

"ELIZABETH"

She sent the note off with the carriage, and Darcy arrived not half-an-hour later, with Charles, Martha, and Mrs. Reynolds, who curtsied and said, "I helped the women Ainsley sent prepare old Mr. Darcy for burial, and I'd be honoured to do the same for Mr. Sinclair, ma'am. Two good men gone too soon from this world."

Charles was settled on the drawing-room floor with some of his toys, and Clarissa asked to help mind him. It seemed to help, to give the girl a responsibility, and she sat sniffling on the floor whilst making a toy horse canter about the boy.

Darcy went to Mr. Sinclair's study, to seek out the will and write the necessary letters for Laurence and Colin Sinclair, and the three women went up to the bedroom that housed the body. Elizabeth laid her hand on Mrs. Sinclair's shoulder as they entered, and said, "You do not need to do this, if it is too difficult. Mrs. Reynolds and I can manage."

"Nay, I want to do it. I feel it's my duty, as his wife, and I – I want to say goodbye."

Mr. Sinclair's valet, Stirling, was keeping vigil over his body, and offered his assistance as well, so it was the four of them who removed his coat, waistcoat, shirt, shoes and stockings, who washed his hair and body with the lavender water Mrs. Reynolds had brought, who dressed him again in a nightshirt, awaiting the shroud Ainsley would provide. Mrs. Reynolds and Elizabeth stepped out, while Stirling and Mrs. Sinclair saw to removing his trousers, then returned to help finish posing him.

Elizabeth had never been so near a dead body and she found it macabre work, particularly as he was beginning to stiffen. She saw, though, that it was for the best that Mrs. Sinclair had participated, for at least her friend looked less shocked. Stirling brushed the nightshirt painstakingly and pulled the bedclothes up to Mr. Sinclair's chin, then stepped back and bowed to the dead man. "He was a great master," he said, in a thickened voice. "Wish I could have served him longer."

Mrs. Sinclair nodded. "I want to bring Clarissa up, to see him."

"I'll stay with him until you do," said Stirling.

The ladies were prevented from leaving the room by what seemed every gardener employed at Pemberley, who carried in a succession of vases full of hot-house flowers. While Elizabeth thought providing _some_ flowers a good gesture, this seemed ridiculous and ostentatious to her, and she wondered at Darcy's doing such a thing. She had a servant direct her to Mr. Sinclair's study and found Darcy there, reading through what she presumed to be the will.

"Darcy, I am sure you intended the flowers as a kindness, but it was rather excessive."

He looked up at her and sighed. "They are for the smell."

"The – oh – I am sorry. I did not think of that."

"I know," he said. "I have unfortunate news, regarding his will."

"There _is_ one, at least – that is what you are reading?"

"Yes, but it is old. He must have written it after Clarissa was born, in 1806. I believe my father was intended to be the executor, but as it merely says _Mr. Darcy, esq. of Pemberley,_ it now applies to me. But he had been intending to have a new one drawn up – he had asked me to serve as executor – to give his wife a life interest in Berewick. She and Clarissa are well provided for in the one he wrote, so do not worry yourself over that, but he had been disappointed in how Laurence had turned out, and wanted him to have more time to mature before receiving the estate."

Elizabeth had thought about many things since Darcy had told her of Mr. Sinclair's death, but she had never turned her mind to what it meant to the Sinclair family, that it was now to be headed by such a man as Laurence Sinclair. Mrs. Reynolds had called Mr. Sinclair and Darcy's father two good men gone too soon from this world, but at least when the latter had died, there would have been the comfort of knowing a good man would succeed him. That would not be the case, here.

"Have you written to his sons yet?"

"Not yet. I want to ensure the letters go in tomorrow's post. It is not much, but at least it will be one additional day for Mrs. Sinclair to mourn in peace."

"He will throw her out, won't he? He will not give her the time she is due."

"I do not think he will do so literally, but I expect he will hint that she should be gone and make things as difficult for her as he can while she stays."

"We should have her come to stay with us, then, after the funeral," Elizabeth said, on the cusp of an idea. "Or better still – "

"Fitzwilliam House," he finished for her. "If she wishes to stay in the neighbourhood, I would gladly lease it to her for a pittance. It would be the least I could do for poor Sinclair."

"Both of her parents are gone, and she has no brothers or sisters living," said Elizabeth. "I think she will wish to stay in the neighbourhood."

He nodded. "We should put it to her in the next few days – I expect she is still too shocked today to be thinking of such things. Will you speak to her of it, when you judge the time to be right?"

Elizabeth promised that she would, but the right time proved to be later that evening. She was sitting with Mrs. Sinclair, Clarissa, and Charles in the drawing-room, the two Sinclair females sitting with their arms about each other for comfort and Charles dozing on the floor, when Mrs. Sinclair said,

"I shall have to begin packing, tomorrow. I do not wish to remain long enough for Laurence to hint that we are not welcome here. She pulled her daughter closer and recommenced weeping, and although she said nothing, Elizabeth felt certain that at least part of her upset was caused by this sudden, shocking homelessness. She felt the wrongness, the hideous wrongness of such a thing, that these ladies who ought to have been focused on nothing but sadness over the man they had lost had instead worries of the future to claim their attention. She wished she could have been giving them news of the updated will, of Mrs. Sinclair's having a life interest in Berewick, but at least she did have something to offer, to ease poor Mrs. Sinclair's mind.

"You need not go far, if you wish it," said Elizabeth. "We would be very glad to offer Fitzwilliam House to you."

Mrs. Sinclair looked up, a hint of hope in her countenance. "Would you? Oh, it would be perfect," she said, but then her countenance turned more guarded. "I won't let you give it to me for next-to-nothing, as I expect the two of you would if left to your own devices. I know my husband will not have left us unprotected – I am sure we can afford what is fair."

"Mr. Darcy did indicate the two of you were well provided for," said Elizabeth. "When a little time has passed, I am sure we can come to terms that everyone is comfortable with. For now, please plan that it should be your home, so you do not feel so pressured to pack your things immediately."

"Would that I did not feel the need to do so, but I fear he is going to fight over all of our possessions beyond our clothes. At least if things are packed away, he will not see them and then notice they have gone missing later."

Disheartened, Elizabeth frowned and could do no more than gaze at her friend in sympathy. When Charles stirred, she took this as a sign that the Darcys should return to Pemberley and went to collect her husband from the study. She informed him of having already made the offer of Fitzwilliam House, to which his reaction was a sort of sceptical shock.

"She – she must have admirable fortitude, to be able to turn her thoughts to such things so soon after the event."

"No, I expect she has turned her mind to it with some frequency over the years, and it has been a source of worry now fully exposed. I lived with that threat for most of my life, of being turned out of my home by a man with little sympathy or understanding for my family's plight," said Elizabeth. "I am ever grateful that will not come to pass, but I can understand how such critical practicalities can outweigh even the deepest grief. I am not sure she will be able to fully mourn until she is in Fitzwilliam House and any confrontations with Laurence Sinclair are in the past."

"If such are her worries – and I thank you, my love, for helping me understand them better – then this will be a relief to her," he said, handing her a leather folio. "Sinclair might not have changed his will, but he must have understood there would be difficulties, on his death."

Elizabeth opened the folio to find a number of slips of paper inside; closer examination found them to be bills of sale. Books, jewellery, porcelain, furniture, a pianoforte, all notated in careful copperplate with either "Gift for Louisa," or "Gift for Clarissa." Mrs. Sinclair would have no battle with such documentation, for here was clear proof of what belonged to her, and Elizabeth knew Darcy would be firm in enforcing that it did not convey with the estate.

"This will be a great relief to her, I am sure," she said.

"When she is ready, we will use this to inventory everything she takes with her to Fitzwilliam House. I'll have Folger come over, to take down a record."

"Perhaps he may start tomorrow," Elizabeth said. "It is late, and I think we ought to go home."

"Please do take Charles and Martha back with you, and get some rest," he said. "I will be staying, though. I intend to sit vigil overnight with him."

Elizabeth nodded, and came around to where he was seated to kiss the top of his head, a rare attitude for them. "I shall see you at home tomorrow, then," she murmured.

"Yes, my love, until tomorrow."

* * *

Dr. Alderman's examination of Mrs. Nichols seemed as though it had been days ago, and yet on her return to Pemberley, Elizabeth was reminded that it had only been earlier that morning. She was required to direct Charles's bed to be moved into her dressing-room, to determine it best that a second bed be moved there as well, with Martha charged to sleep there and wake her mistress if Charles needed to nurse.

This all meant that Elizabeth was required to sleep in the mistress's bedchamber, a room she used but rarely, much preferring the master's elegant, understated equivalent to this overwhelming mass of gilt, panelling and brocade. Sleep claimed her easily, even though it was not a comfortable space, and as Charles did not wake in the night she was quite insensible to the world until she awoke at daybreak, feeling a presence climbing into the bed behind her.

There was no cause for alarm: it was Darcy; they had been married long enough for her to immediately recognise the way he moved, his scent, his touch as he snuggled up behind her and drew his arm over her side. For a moment she felt a strange discomfiture at the thought of being held thus by a man who had stayed up all night keeping company with a dead man, but it passed. Then she felt him press his face against her shoulder, felt that shaking of his body which could only be his sobs.

Elizabeth turned around to face him, startled at the depth of grief she found.

"It's like losing another father," he whispered. "When my father died, I was so overwhelmed. Sinclair stepped in to become a mentor, a confidante. Whenever I was unsure of something, I would take it to him to discuss. Berewick is not so big as Pemberley, but that did not matter – it was simply having someone I trusted to talk it over with, someone older and wiser than myself. I owe so much to him, and I never told him."

"I am sure he knew, and I believe he must have been proud, to have seen you take up your responsibilities with such success." Proud, she thought, and perhaps disappointed when he thought to compare Fitzwilliam Darcy and Laurence Sinclair. Disappointing, that the same man could assist in the forming of a young Mr. Darcy to become the man he was today, and yet raise such a son.

Such thoughts were secondary to the comforting of a man in need of far more comfort than she had expected. Elizabeth could not know whether he had been hiding within his stoicism when last she had seen him, or if his emotions had degraded overnight as he had sat with his dead mentor. At least he had come to her in his lowest spirits, had known she would pull him closer and murmur, "Oh my love – oh my poor, poor love," and let him weep against her chest.

* * *

In the days that followed, the Darcys continued to spend most of their time at Berewick, aiding Mrs. Sinclair. Her belongings were packed under the careful cataloguing of the clerk Folger, packed more quickly than they needed to be, for Laurence Sinclair did not – as had been expected – rush to Derbyshire to claim his estate. His brother Colin arrived first, four days after Darcy's letters had gone out, and surprised them all.

"Madam, I am very sorry for your loss. You appear to be well assisted by your neighbours, but please do let me know if there is anything I can do for you, during this time," he said, bowing over Mrs. Sinclair's hand, then turning to Darcy and adding, "And you, sir – if there are any legal matters pertaining to the will, might I offer my assistance?"

Elizabeth had always presumed the younger son was much like the elder; he was a barrister in town, and she had understood the acquaintance to be one her husband viewed with disinterest. By the shock on both Darcy's and Mrs. Sinclair's faces, Elizabeth understood her presumptions to be correct, but that it appeared Colin Sinclair had undergone some material change. He gave them no cause to think his first words a mere act – he was all good manners and quiet assistance through the remainder of that day.

The Darcys were not able to speak of this apparent transformation until they returned to Pemberley and retired for bed that evening – Colin was to sit with his father that night – and Elizabeth broached the subject by saying, "Colin Sinclair was not at all what I was expecting."

"Nor I," said Darcy. "I have not seen him for some years and now wish I had made better endeavours to include him in invitations while we were in town. When last I knew him, he was more like his brother – both of them unhappy that their mother had been replaced. He has known work, though, and his brother has not. Who is to know if he truly still dislikes Mrs. Sinclair deep down, but a barrister cannot forward his career with poor manners."

"I like to think he has had a deeper change of heart. In his place I certainly would not like that I had to work to advance my career while my brother wasted his time about town, spending our father's money."

"Very true," he said, gravely. "And that is why James will not be allowed idleness. I still wonder that Sinclair allowed his own son to be thus."

"I think sometimes there are people in our lives whom we love because they have good hearts and they are kind to us," said Elizabeth, who had a great deal of experience in this, "and yet we cannot fully respect them, because they will not exert themselves to do what is difficult."

He looked contemplative. "Do you feel that I – "

"No, no, absolutely not. I think you know of whom I speak, and it is not you," Elizabeth said, understanding perhaps for the first time on a conscious level that this was one of the things that made her love her husband so deeply. "You, Fitzwilliam Darcy, have never shied away from that which is difficult."

"You are very good to say so, Elizabeth, and yet you must recall that there have been times when I have been pushed into the difficult – most often by you."

"Perhaps. But I maintain you never shied from it, and I do not think you ever will."

* * *

When Laurence Sinclair failed to appear the next day, everyone at Berewick was agreed that the funeral should be set for a week after Mr. Sinclair's death whether his eldest son appeared in time or not; things were in a state where they could wait no longer. He did arrive the evening before the funeral, however, quite shockingly with a young lady accompanying him, whom he introduced as his wife.

She was beautiful, petite, and aloof. Silently, she sat and assessed her company as her husband perused his father's will.

"About as I expected," he said, when he finished. Then he lifted his teacup from the table beside him, and appeared contemplative. He looked to his mother-in-law. "This is not the best china. Do not tell me you have stolen it."

Darcy spoke first, and quickly: "Your father left a very detailed accounting – "

"He is not," Mrs. Sinclair interrupted him in clipped accents, "even in the vault yet, and this is what you care for? Have you no sense of loyalty?"

"The one to whom I am loyal died twenty years ago," said Laurence. He looked to his brother, seeming to expect that man's support, but Colin looked away, his countenance ashamed. They were all ashamed, except Laurence Sinclair and his wife, and any hopes Elizabeth might have had that a woman – even an aloof one – would have some softening influence on the man now dissipated.

Perhaps she ought to have known better than to so firmly establish herself in a poor first impression of the young lady, but Elizabeth did not see how she could be otherwise than poor company, to be someone who could have married such a man. It was only when the ladies were left by themselves during the funeral the next day that she began to understand how very wrong she had been.

It had been a long, draining morning, as the dowager Mrs. Sinclair and her daughter had said their final goodbyes, and then Mr. Sinclair left Berwick for the last time. There had been many tears shed that morning, and perhaps would be more that evening, when Mrs. Sinclair and Clarissa left for their new home. For now, however, they were a silent, awkward party, everyone but the new Mrs. Sinclair ruffled by that woman's presence.

Perhaps it was too much to ask the dowager to refrain from speaking, from some indulgence in bitterness, and showing that her assessment of her successor as mistress of the house mirrored Elizabeth's, she finally said, coldly,

"You need not worry over my staying in this house too long, madam. My daughter and I will depart for our new home after dinner."

Upon hearing this, that aloof countenance crumbled and the young lady's eyes filled with tears. "I am sorry you feel you must leave so soon. I – I had hoped you might – might help me with the running of the house, at first. I wish I had more influence over Laurence, so that I could convince him you should stay. It's – it's not right that you should be turned out of your home so quickly."

She finished this little speech by wringing her hands together, and in a glance shared with her friend, Elizabeth knew they had both realised the same thing: this poor creature was much younger than they had understood, far from home, and not very happily married.

"How long have you and Mr. Sinclair been married?" asked Elizabeth, knowing her question to be an impertinence and yet feeling she needed to gain a better understanding of the situation in what time they would have before the men returned.

"Three days. We – we were wed by special license before we came north. Laurence did not wish to wait."

"Your parents did not mind such a quick wedding?"

"My parents are both dead – my father passed two years ago. I was my cousin's ward. He – he and Laurence are friends."

"Oh," was all Elizabeth could manage to say in response. The poor girl would not say it, but Elizabeth thought it certain that she had been coerced – if not forced – into the marriage. It was an awful match on both sides: Laurence Sinclair needed a wife as heartless as him, and Elizabeth's first thought – perhaps unjust, perhaps not – was that Caroline Bingley would have suited him very well if she had not married Sir Sedgewick Harrison. As for Laurence Sinclair's poor wife, she seemed much too young to be wed to _anyone_ , but if she was required to wed, it should have been to someone kind.

"I cannot stay," said the elder Mrs. Sinclair, her tone now one of sympathy. "It would not be good for anyone involved for me to remain in this house for any longer. But I will tell you what I can now about the running of the house, and you are welcome to call upon me at Fitzwilliam House. It is near enough that you can even walk there, if you wish."

"Thank you, that is very kind of you," said her successor, one lone tear slipping from her eye before she reached up to dash it away.

The men returned some time after this, even Laurence Sinclair managing to be appropriately sombre on this day. They dined silently, with no insults, no recriminations, and then two carriages were brought around, one for Pemberley, the other for Fitzwilliam House. The dowager Mrs. Sinclair did not look back, upon leaving Berewick Hall. Perhaps she wanted to, but Elizabeth knew she would not allow her son-in-law the satisfaction of seeing her upset over the loss of her old home.

As for Elizabeth, she turned into her husband's embrace as soon as the carriage doors were closed, overwhelmed with gratitude that she had married such a man, that he was young, and healthy. Still, the events of the past few months were a reminder that it could all be fleeting – seize every day, was Darcy's philosophy, one she had adopted as well – and she was glad of that reminder.

"I love you," she whispered. "Oh, I love you so much."

"And I you, my Elizabeth. My dearest, loveliest Elizabeth."


	15. Part 1, Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

The Stantons stopped at the Bush rather than the Angel, on their return to London. If it had been Georgiana's choice alone, they would have stopped at that hostelry and she would have ensured the proprietor saw her unbruised face, but Matthew's reaction to this proposal had been significant embarrassment, and she had immediately eschewed it.

Matthew. Georgiana could not say he was wholly better, but she did see some little signs of improvement. His nightmares did not seem to be quite so frequent, he had taken up shooting as a daily pastime, and most significantly, he had begun to read – although not respond to – Lord Stretford's letters. Georgiana was of the hopes that a reconciliation might come about while they were in town. They would be staying at the Darcys's town house, but Caroline had been promised outings to the _park_ , to see her friend, so the Stantons would be going to Cavendish Square with some frequency, whether Matthew wished to or not.

They would be taking up residence in the house before the Darcys themselves, for Georgiana had wanted to arrive in time to attend Mrs. Annesley's wedding, while the Darcys intended a visit of some length at Longbourn before they returned to town. In his letter, Fitzwilliam had said it was no trouble at all; it had been her home for many years, and she should feel free to act as hostess until the Darcys arrived. The Stantons were welcomed warmly by Mr. Miller and Mrs. Wright, who knelt down and told Caroline she was a very good, very pretty young lady and then muttered something about little _girls_ not strewing bits of mud about the entrance-hall.

The last time Georgiana had spent any length of time in this house, it had been during her lone London season, and it was strange to return here and recall those days, given how much had happened since. Stranger still, when Georgiana left her card at Lady Tonbridge's house and that lady returned the call with a reminder that she still held a weekly musical club, and the Stantons would be welcome to attend if Lady Stanton felt well enough for it.

Georgiana assured Lady Tonbridge that she was well, and the Stantons entered the lady's music room to a rather substantial stirring of those gathered. It could not be otherwise, she supposed, since this was the first time they had been at a society event since Matthew's return, and although Georgiana still maintained she had another month before her child should be due, to those gathered it must have seemed as though Lady Stanton stood a good chance of beginning her labours that night.

"Will you play for us, Lady Stanton?" asked Lady Tonbridge, her countenance indicating that like the others, she thought Georgiana was only a sonata or two from her lying-in. "Or are you merely here to listen?"

"I will play, if you please," said Georgiana.

"Oh, I most certainly do please, if you feel up to it," said Lady Tonbridge, looking about the room. "Those of you who were not attending during Lady Stanton's last season are in for quite a treat, I assure you."

Georgiana's fingers were a little swollen at this point in her pregnancy, and she had brought the music for a simpler piece from Clementi's Gradus ad Parnassum as well as her favourite acquisition from her time in the Mediterranean, Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 28. She flexed them and decided on the Beethoven; the musical club had always been forgiving of mistakes on a difficult piece, and she could usually play this one with minimal errors. She managed to do so on this evening, despite contending with such distractions as young Miss Darcy had never had to deal with – namely the cavorting of the child in her belly through the majority of the Allegro.

Georgiana had never been a showy player – she played because she loved music, loved to try to make those sounds she enjoyed hearing, loved to share it with those who loved it as she did – and she stood immediately after the final chords intending to slip back to her seat beside Matthew. She was not allowed to do so. The piece was too long for the stunned silence that sometimes followed her Scarlatti songs; the audience had had ample time to understand they were listening to something far beyond common drawing-room playing, and when she rose the applause was thunderous. To her great embarrassment, when she turned around she found the majority of the room standing, and the few laggards rising from their seats. Her face grew tremendously hot, and she felt a little dizzy: Matthew must have seen this, for he rushed forward to escort her back to their seats.

"Well! Suffice to say Lady Stanton did not give up the instrument after marrying," said Lady Tonbridge, and most of the room laughed as they seated themselves. "And what about you, Captain Stanton? Will you play for us tonight?"

"My cello is still back at Stanton Hall, my lady," said Matthew, stiffly.

"Well, I'd say you ought to send for it, but I expect you might be otherwise occupied by our next session," said Lady Tonbridge, adding a very visible wink that sent another ripple of laughter about the room.

Lady Tonbridge had the good sense to avoid recruiting a pianoforte player to follow such a display, and instead coaxed a young lady who must have been in her first or second season to do a piece on the harp. As Georgiana seated herself, Matthew murmured, "Dearest, are you well? Do you need to go home and rest?"

"I am fine, just a little overwhelmed."

"So were we," he whispered, and clasped her hand. "You were – you were amazing."

Georgiana remembered very well the days when the mere sight of his face had made her feel nearly as dizzy as the combined effects of pregnancy and such a reaction from her audience had done tonight, and she returned his grip with equal strength.

* * *

Mrs. Annesley's wedding was the next day, and Georgiana braced herself for another stirring of those assembled as she and Matthew entered Lord Epworth's ballroom. She found she had no attention for the rest of the crowd, however, for among those already seated was Lord Stretford. Georgiana knew she could not force a reconciliation between two men, but she also knew she could not let the marquess's attendance here go unrewarded; his approving presence would certainly be reported in the gossip pages.

"I would like to sit with Lord Stretford," she murmured. "It means a great deal to me that he came, and it will mean still more to my friend. Will you come with me?"

Matthew said that he would, and although Lord Stretford was surprised to see them approach, it was clear the surprise was pleasant. He rose and bowed, and they echoed him, the exchange marred by Matthew's greeting, which was simply, " _Uncle_." His tone was that of bitterness, of irony.

Georgiana ensured she was seated between the two of them, glad to be distracted when the Fitzwilliams – all of them – made their entrance. They all begged her to remain seated, but it was only Edward who said what they all appeared to be thinking, which was, "Dear Lord, Georgiana, are you sure you aren't going to treat us to a wedding _and_ a birth?"

Georgiana blushed and giggled, and everyone around her laughed, Matthew and Lord Stretford included. The Fitzwilliams seated themselves in the available chairs beside and behind the Stantons, and the ceremony began soon after this. Standing up with Mrs. Annesley was a delightfully bright-eyed, pink-cheeked young lady who could not have appeared happier. "That is Miss Gillingham, Lord Epworth's daughter," whispered Marguerite, who was seated behind Georgiana. "She is a delightful little créature and I will just eat her up."

She did seem to be a delightful little créature, but at the moment Georgiana was simply grateful that the young lady seemed so happy about the marriage. Having never met Mrs. Annesley's charge, she had envisaged one possible scenario wherein the girl was a snob and disliked the notion of her father's marrying her companion. Georgiana was very glad to see that was plainly not the case. Miss Gillingham's smile for Mrs. Annesley was genuine, and oh, how lovely Mrs. Annesley looked! Her dress was still appropriate for her age, but she had eschewed her cap and fichu, those trappings of matrondom, and this made a tremendous difference.

The ceremony went the usual length and then the guests were dismissed from the ballroom while the breakfast was set up, left to squeeze themselves into the drawing-room and parlour across the hall. It likely seemed a crush to everyone except Georgiana, who was given a very wide berth as her family escorted her to a chair. They had been conversing there for some time when the crowd parted yet again to admit the new Lady Epworth and Miss Gillingham.

Lady Epworth had come very particularly to introduce Miss Gillingham to those of the Stanton and Fitzwilliam party she did not already know; once again Georgiana was bade to remain seated as Miss Gillingham, her eyes shining, curtseyed deeply and said, "I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Stanton – I feel as though I already know you, I have heard so much about you."

Georgiana returned her greeting warmly, and had her own opportunity to learn more about Miss Gillingham in the ensuing conversation: she was not out yet, but would be allowed a few dinners and other events before her presentation in the next season; Mrs. Fitzwilliam had already promised to take her to Almack's next year and she was impossibly excited, intending to dance all night or at the very least until her feet were too sore to allow her to continue. And she would, Georgiana thought, for while Miss Gillingham was perhaps not fully beautiful, she was such a picture of youth and enthusiasm that she was not likely to want for beaus, particularly as heiress of her father's fortune. Georgiana experienced a strange moment of realisation then, that she was thinking of Miss Gillingham as a young lady, seeing her through the eyes of an experienced, married woman, even though Miss Gillingham could not be more than five years her junior. Georgiana could not fix upon the moment when she herself had ceased feeling youthful and innocent, but at some point in all that life had wrought these past few years that moment had passed, until now unnoticed.

* * *

With these social events done, it was time to get to the business of the Stantons's being in town. The first purpose was of course for Georgiana to give birth, but she had also engaged Mr. Thorpe, the portrait painter the Darcys had used for the last few portraits done within the family, to do one of Georgiana's family. He had his first session with them the next morning – such a long time to remain unmoving not particularly liked by any of the Stantons, and absolutely loathed by little Caroline. The poor child did her best to behave, however, and received much praise from both of her parents.

"You have done so well this morning, my sweetling. I must go to see my physician," said Georgiana, "but when I return, we will go to the park, and I hope Amelia will be there."

Caroline nodded solemnly, but then Matthew said, "Or if you would like to go now, papa may take you."

Far more happily, the child cried, "Pwease, papa, nowww!" Her mother held her father in a firm gaze and asked, "And will you stop to call at great-uncle William's house?"

He sighed, and Georgiana laid her hand on his arm. "Matthew, please, will you just do this for me, if not for yourself? I do not want to go into this birth with the two of you so estranged."

Some part of her felt this to be a lowly, manipulative tactic, yet not enough of her to stop her from using it. Nor was it something that any reasonable man could argue against, and thus Matthew was required to acquiesce.

Dr. Whittling received Georgiana with raised eyebrows, clearly assessing her size as she entered his office. One of the several woman who served him as monthly nurses was seated within; she was introduced as Mrs. Tippett, and was to act as chaperone for this visit and then as Georgiana's monthly nurse, thereafter.

"I must say, Lady Stanton, had you not such confidence that you could grow larger, I would have told you I expected the child to come any day now."

"I know," said Georgiana, blushing. "I have been out in society a little over the past few days and I think prompted some fears of bearing a child in my hosts' and hostesses' drawing-rooms."

He chuckled. "Was there any chance your first child was late?"

She shook her head and blushed still further. "I – I know precisely when she was conceived."

"Ah, I understand." One of the things Georgiana liked about Dr. Whittling was his ability to receive intelligence like this with a completely impassive countenance, as if she had told him nothing more than she had eaten toast and jam for breakfast.

He proceeded with the usual examination, then spent a goodly amount of time pushing in on her belly, explaining that he was checking for the position of the head. "I want to induce you into labour in the next few days," he said, "so long as the head is facing down. I've had good success with breech babies, so do not worry if it comes to that, but I'd rather it not come to that if we can help it. And ah, yes, there we are – the head _is_ facing down. So then the only thing to do is to fix a date. I have no appointments tomorrow – would that be too soon?"

"I – I fear it would be," said Georgiana. "I think I need a few days, to – to prepare myself. And some of my relations are in Hertfordshire."

"I understand. How would Monday suit you?"

"I think that would be good, thank you," said Georgiana, feeling strange to set a date for her to give birth in the same way they might fix on a dinner invitation.

She returned home and wrote to Longbourn to summon her brother and sister, writing the direction very firmly so that when it was sent express, it would not cause any undue alarm. Then she waited – thinking it a good sign that Matthew and Caroline were still out – until her family returned. They came in quietly, Matthew carrying in a sleeping Caroline from the carriage. He took her up to the nursery and then came down to join Georgiana in the drawing-room. She looked at him expectantly, until he took a deep breath and spoke:

"I am glad you pushed me to go. I will not say that I have completely forgiven him, but I find it very hard to have him missing from my life."

"What is it that you cannot forgive him for?"

"A month ago, I would have said for what he did in the first place. That, of course, was mere anger – I cannot maintain a grudge against a man for my own existence. But I do wish he had told me sooner, much sooner. I do not think he knew just how bad things were at the parsonage, and if I had known the truth of my parentage, I would have been more comfortable in telling him of it. Perhaps then he would have done more to assist me, to get me out of the house at a younger age."

"I do not know how he could have done so," Georgiana said. "You left home at about the same age most boys go to school."

"I know. Perhaps when I can accept that what I want is impossible, that will be when I can forgive him fully."

* * *

The Darcys arrived on Saturday, and in a happy surprise they had brought the Ramseys with them, Catherine and Andrew having been at Longbourn for the spring planting and convinced to take a sojourn in town with the Darcys. Catherine still had mixed feelings as to whether this was a wise thing to do. Yes, there was the theatre to look forward to, and Lizzy had promised to take her dress shopping. Yet she had also voluntarily come to a house in which another woman was to give birth: if all went well – and Catherine prayed it would – Georgiana would soon be a mother twice over. And Catherine would still be childless.

They had arrived in time for dinner, and as they were all gathering in the drawing-room Catherine noticed an easel had been set up in the corner. Curious, she walked over to it, thinking it odd that Georgiana – never as enthusiastic about painting as Catherine – would be practising the art at such a time. When she reached the canvas, however, she saw that it was not a painting _by_ Georgiana, but rather _of_ Georgiana.

In truth, it appeared it was to be a portrait of the entire Stanton family: Georgiana and Caroline seated beside each other, Matthew standing behind them. Yet while Matthew and Caroline were quite roughly sketched, Georgiana's face and hair were nearly done, although there was blank canvas where her arms and lap should have been. A strange coldness washed over Catherine for a moment as she realised that the final portrait would be dependent on the events of the next few days. If Georgiana and the baby both lived, it would likely be held within her arms when the portrait was completed; if only she lived, her dress and arms would fill that space; if that more awful possibility, Matthew and Caroline would see the portrait completed in their grief. This was the thing Catherine never really thought about, when she wished she could become with child, and for a moment she felt the relief that she would never face childbirth. She would never have the reward, but nor would she ever succumb to the risk.

She contemplated this during dinner; there was ample time to contemplate whatever she wished, for the conversation during the first remove began with a discussion of how things had been at Longbourn, somehow veered rapidly into land management, and from there to the price of wheat. Mr. Darcy, Catherine's husband, and – strangely enough – Georgiana were the primary participants of this conversation, but with only six of them at the table, it would have been rude to begin a competing conversation. There was a momentary lull, and Catherine's hopes rose, but she could not think of a new topic herself and then Georgiana asked about breeds of sheep, of all things. Catherine gazed at Lizzy in exasperation, but Lizzy's glance back at her was full of mirth, and Catherine found herself grinning back, finding Lizzy's amusement infectious as Mr. Darcy espoused the comparative merits of Leicester Longwools, Southdowns, Dorset Horns, Wiltshire Horns, and whatever other Horns there were in existence.

It was the second remove's coming that finally broke them away from estate matters. Georgiana seemed to realise how little half of their party had contributed to the previous discussions, for she asked, "How are your parents?"

"Mr. Bennet is well," said Catherine. "Now that he and Andrew have spent so much time together, he likes Andrew better than me."

"Catherine!" exclaimed Lizzy. "I am sure that is not true."

"Oh no, it is," chuckled Catherine. "He said precisely that."

They all laughed, save Matthew, who merely smiled. He did not know Mr. Bennet so well as the rest of them, well enough to understand that Mr. Bennet had largely been teasing Catherine when he said it, although Catherine also knew that he did enjoy her husband's company very much. Mr. Bennet had gained five sons by marriage, of course, but with Catherine the heir to Longbourn and the Ramseys at the estate most frequently, he had certainly grown closest to Andrew.

"And how is Mrs. Bennet?" asked Georgiana.

"She is quite happy," said Elizabeth. "She has finally been given leave to redecorate the drawing-room and there is not a swatch of upholstery or wallpaper in all of England she has not considered."

Most of them laughed again at this, and Catherine added, "And she is completely obsessed with Lizzy's appearances in the gossip pages – I am sure there is nothing that could make her happier. How disappointed she was when we could not go to the Meryton Assembly so Lizzy could wear one of her ballgowns. I think she knows Lizzy's dresses better than Lizzy herself!"

"Oh, I am certain she does," said Elizabeth. "She asked me about the green silk crepe and I must admit I had no idea what she was talking about."

"I recall that dress," stated Mr. Darcy. "You wore it to Lady Tonbridge's ball last season and looked very well in it – the white trim about the bust was a particularly fine touch, particularly with the pearls in your hair."

Elizabeth threw her hands in the air and laughed heartily. "Apparently everyone knows my dresses better than I do, but I thank you for the compliment, Mr. Darcy."


	16. Part 1, Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Socially distanced July 4 meant I was able to get another batch of chapters ready, so here they are!

**Chapter 16**

Everyone staying at Curzon Street went to church on Sunday, Georgiana included, even though they all tried to convince her to stay home. She did rest for the remainder of the day, but skipping church the day before she was – presuming Dr. Whittling's draught worked – supposed to give birth seemed an inauspicious way to prepare for that event.

Dr. Whittling came the next day at the agreed-upon hour, and after his entrance into the house Mr. Miller ordered the knocker removed from the door. The accoucheur mixed up his draught and Georgiana drank it down, far from the worst-tasting draught she had ever consumed in her life, although not exactly pleasant, either. Then she retreated to her bedchamber, where a large copper tub sat half-full of steaming water. Moll was waiting there to attend her, and when Georgiana looked quizzically at the depth of the water, her maid said, "I'm to keep adding hot water 'till ye can't stand it no more, milady."

Nodding, Georgiana removed her dressing gown and stepped carefully into the tub. Moll left the room and returned with two pails of steaming-hot water, and upon seeing this, Georgiana said, "Oh Moll, this is hardly within what is expected to be your duty."

"Won't be the first bucket I slung, milady, nor the last, I 'spect, once me and Taylor take over the inn. I don't mind," said Moll, overturning the first bucket into the tub, and then the second.

"Still, you shall have a bonus for all of this," promised Georgiana.

Moll made two more trips before the tub was full, Georgiana having no difficulty in _standing it_. Then Moll left her to stew, and stew she did. She had been irritated by Matthew's non-participation in discussions of land matters, estate matters, during those times they had come up in conversation over the past few days. Irritated both because he himself showed so little interest, and because Captain Ramsey showed so much. Andrew Ramsey was to inherit an estate, but Matthew already _owned_ one, and yet it was Andrew who had thrown himself into learning everything he could about the land, about its management. Of course Andrew had not been through what Matthew had been through, she reminded herself, and yet, as though her mind was overheating just as much as her body, Georgiana found it difficult to focus on this at the present moment. She felt exceedingly irritable, as regarded Matthew, and she was glad it was Moll who sat in a chair against the wall, not him, for if he had been here she thought it likely she would have begun to chastise him. Even now, wallowing in her hot irritation, she had some sense that this was unfair.

Eventually her irritation shifted to Dr. Whittling, for the draught appeared to be doing absolutely nothing. They had called poor Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam in from Hertfordshire, and all for naught. Georgiana stood, scowling, the water running down her swollen belly, her legs.

"Milady, you ought to stay in for longer," said Moll.

"Well, I'm not going to," snapped Georgiana. "And you _ought_ to know it isn't your place to tell me what I _ought_ to do."

It was Moll's expression in reaction to this that made Georgiana realise she'd turned termagant – just as she had before Caroline's birth. The heat from the bath seemed to rise up from her legs, overtaking her, prickling, strange heat, and then she bent over and retched into the water.

"Captain, I need ye!" bellowed Moll, and Matthew burst into the room, both of them helping Georgiana out of the bath as she doubled over, her labour pains beginning. "I'm sorry, Moll, I didn't mean – "

"I know ye didn't, milady, I recall how you was the last time," soothed Moll, rubbing her mistress's back before she proceeded to help Matthew pull Georgiana's wet shift from her body, dry her, and change her into a nightgown. The four-poster bed in the room had been moved into the corner, to make room for the little thin folding bed upon which Georgiana would give birth. When they attempted to steer her towards it, however, she said, "Nay – I am not so optimistic that this will go that much faster. Let me sit in a chair, for now."

And so she was assisted to a chair, feeling much less nauseous once she was seated. Word was passed downstairs that her lying-in had begun, which resulted in the bedchamber filling with persons who would attend her: Dr. Whittling, of course; Matthew and Moll; Elizabeth and Moll's older sister; Catherine; and Georgiana's aunt Ellen and cousin Marguerite. In a way, it was nice to have such support after giving birth to Caroline without any of her family about, but Georgiana recognised the rightness of what Dr. Whittling said: "I appreciate the desire of you all to support Lady Stanton, but this is too many people by half. If the birth goes anywhere near so long as her first she will be up overnight, so perhaps I might recommend you organise yourselves in shifts. You are her abigail?" he asked, addressing Moll.

Moll replied that she was.

"And you, I recall you from Mrs. Darcy's bearing young Charles. Kelly, isn't it?" he asked Sarah Kelly. He received a nod and a murmured "Yes, sir," in response.

"You have a strong constitution?" he asked Moll, and someone – not Moll – snorted in a most undignified manner in response to this.

"I do, sir," replied Moll, a quirk of her countenance indicating she was of a mind with the snorter.

"My abigail is Mrs. Taylor," said Georgiana, "and she did most of the work in delivering Caroline. She is Kelly's sister."

"Ah, good," he replied. "Nothing so useful as a good, steady abigail in such times, and nothing so difficult as a fussy one, or worse still, one faint of constitution – trying to deliver a child and the woman who's supposed to be helping her mistress fainting at the sight of it. Tippett will join us later, but I'll want one or the other of you two in the room at all times."

The sisters nodded, Moll's countenance far more indicative of her agreement with what Dr. Whittling said than her impassive sister's. There was some whispered conversation between the two of them and the other ladies in the room, as they all sorted themselves into shifts and then communicated their plans. Lady Ellen and Marguerite would attend Georgiana for the day, along with Sarah Kelly; Elizabeth, Catherine, and Moll would attend her overnight. The only constant would be Matthew. Even Dr. Whittling indicated he would take time to rest, so as to be ready whenever the baby finally came, but although Matthew had been through much since the last time Georgiana had given birth, one look at his countenance made clear that this had not changed: he would not leave her until it was over.

Thus it was the entertainments of Marguerite and Lady Ellen that Georgiana experienced in that first day of her labour, the pains a little more substantial than they had been with Caroline, but the os uteri – according to Dr. Whittling – still far from where it would be at birth. Their conversation was light-hearted, just enough so to be irritating to one such as Georgiana, who found her capacity for irritation so oddly expanded when she gave birth. Her love for Lady Ellen and Marguerite prompted her to hold her tongue, however, and seek to find what enjoyment she could in what they spoke of. What gave her most enjoyment, though, was how close it seemed the two of them had become, how Lady Ellen had once again gained close female companionship within her family.

It grew late in the evening, and Georgiana was eventually convinced to lie down upon the folding bed, her pains growing gradually worse but not progressing much faster than they had with Caroline. That child was the cause of the greatest disturbance of the night, for suddenly her sobbing could be heard in the hallway, and Rachel McClare rapped on the door. Since the arrival of her cousins and George Nichols in the nursery, Caroline had held little interest for any of the adults in her life. As it had not in Cavendish Square, it did not bother her that the boys were older and larger than her, and as for those boys, they had no qualms about including a little girl in their games, for she had functional legs and arms enough to do most of the things they enjoyed.

Georgiana had hoped they would continue to distract Caroline through her mother's lying-in, but it appeared the distraction had not held, and while Caroline was generally a very reasonable little girl, when she wanted one or both of her parents, she wanted them immediately. Matthew brushed his wife's cheek with his fingertips and said, "I'll go see to her."

A few minutes later, he carried in a sobbing, sniffling little mess of a child and said she would not be consoled by anyone other than her mother. He set Caroline down on the bed, the child taking whatever scant space she could claim beside Georgiana and lying down, facing her mother. She did not question why her mother was thus, and when she spoke it was that same loquacious gibberish Georgiana had heard her use with Matthew, the most recognisable words being "mama," "park," and "Amewia," but by her tone Georgiana was beginning to sense that Caroline had been to the park recently.

"Did someone take you to the park today, Caroline?" she asked.

"Uncaw Will," replied Caroline.

"Great-uncle William? Or uncle Fitzwilliam?"

"Uncaw Will, no uncaw Fitz."

The sound of several people stifling giggles followed this pronouncement, and Georgiana thought Fitzwilliam was fortunate that none of the people in the room were those most likely to tease him over being termed _uncle Fitz_. His reprieve was not likely to last, though, unless Caroline suddenly proved able to pronounce _Fitzwilliam_.

"Is Lord Stretford here, then?" asked Georgiana, glancing to Matthew, whose eyes softened just the slightest, just enough for her to notice.

"Yes, and it is good for he can keep Lord Brandon company while Edward makes your brother soused with brandy so he will not worry so much," said Marguerite.

Giggles could not be stifled at this, but Caroline, unhappy at having lost her mother's attention, made a firm grab for her chin and proceeded with what seemed a description of her day in the _park_ , with made-up words substituted for any real ones she did not know, which was many of them.

Georgiana nodded and made a short reply when it seemed this was expected of her, and they continued on in this manner until Caroline's eyelids began to droop and Georgiana ceased replying to her, which allowed the child to fall asleep. Georgiana kissed her forehead – she was about to bear another child, but oh, how very dear Caroline was to her, how very hard she had fought for this little girl!

Lady Ellen, Marguerite, and Sarah Kelly left her at the agreed-upon hour, replaced by the new shift. Perhaps because of the hour, perhaps because they understood Georgiana had little desire to speak, Elizabeth and Catherine were generally quiet, while Moll sat in the corner, sewing. Georgiana had been too agitated during Caroline's birth to manage to sleep, but she did attempt and succeed at dozing off some few times as the night progressed, her sleep punctuated with dreams that were shallow variations of her present situation – she was in labour, but Dr. Whittling could not be found, the bed could not be found, her child was born and a perfectly healthy girl, but nothing could be found to cut the cord tying the infant to her mother.

She had no idea how quickly or slowly time passed, in that night. On the ship Caroline, the bells every half hour had told her precisely this, but here there was not even so much as a clock within earshot that could serve as her tell-tale. She drifted to sleep again, a little more deeply this time:

_Bermuda, Bermuda. When had she ever been to Bermuda, but in a dream, a dream of another life? Yet there she was, standing on a quay at the Royal Dockyard, staring at two ships that had made their best attempts to destroy each other: HMS Caroline and USS President._

_No, she opened her mouth to scream. No, I cannot be here, I do not belong here, this is not my world, not my life. But then there he was, Captain Stanton, limping down the quay, the arm of his uniform coat pinned up, no human flesh to fill it. He smiled to her. How very young he looked, how very happy – despite all he had lost – how very confident!_

" _They are sending me back to England," he said, "So I may escort you home, Miss Darcy. We will travel on a warship, but there was no difficulty in arranging a cabin for you. I hardly think there is anything I could have asked for that the admiral would not have granted me, after such a victory."_

" _Will – will you be given a new command, instead of the Caroline?"_

" _If I am, I will decline it, so that I can retire with you to Pemberley."_

_But you cannot manage Pemberley! She wanted to cry out, but did not. But Caroline is the dearest name to me!_

_He took her to an inn, a very fine inn, and arranged separate rooms for each of them, escorting her up the stairs to her room and then leaving her at the door. She slept – she must have, although she could not recall it – and then the next morning dressed herself as best she could and made to go down to breakfast._

_She was not three steps down the hallway before she found herself grasped from behind, an arm below her bosom and another over her mouth. "Did you think you could be rid of me so easily, Mrs. Wickham?" asked the only man who would ask such a thing. "I am not done with you, Georgiana."_

Georgiana woke screaming and flailing, shocking her attendants into panicked action until she felt herself enveloped by two – two, thank God – of Matthew's arms. "Shhh, it's all right, dearest. Just a dream. It's just a dream."

She wanted to ask him how he could say thus to her and still be so affected by his own dreams, but it was not the time. At present she needed the reassurance she wished she could have given to him.

"Her water's gone," observed Moll. "Mrs. Ramsey, could ye tell the doctor? It'll go quicker, now, and we'll need to change her and the bedsheets."

Catherine took no issue with being given orders from Georgiana's maid, and exited the room at nearly a run. In truth, Georgiana was glad of this; while she loved Catherine as a friend, at present she would rather be surrounded by those who had a goodly degree of experience with birth, and she could not say she was disappointed when Dr. Whittling, Sarah Kelly and her aunt Ellen entered the bedchamber, and Catherine did not return.

Georgiana laid there, in her fresh nightgown on the fresh sheets, to sharply increasing pain. It helped that Dr. Whittling was exceedingly professional and confident about matters, lifting her leg to check on how far the os uteri were dilated, then asking for her permission to make that still more discomfiting check, which at least brought with it the reassurance that the baby's head was indeed coming first and all was well. He emerged from under the sheet and told them it would not be more than half-an-hour, now.

Then came the unfortunate return of Caroline's whimpering outside. Someone opened the door and the child scampered in, trailed by the apologies of Mrs. McClare. Now, it seemed, she sensed her mother's distress – perhaps it had even been Georgiana's screams that had awakened her – and it distressed her, too.

"Mama!" she exclaimed, but unlike last night she had no more words, seeming confused to find her mother in such a state.

"Mama is having another baby, sweetling," gasped Georgiana. "In a little while I hope you will have a younger brother or sister, even younger than your cousin Charles. Won't that be nice?"

"Mama," and a pitiful countenance, was the only response she received.

"Caroline, why don't you go ask your uncle Fitzwilliam to show you the horses in the mews? Would you like to see some horses?"

"Uncaw Fitz?"

"You can see a pony, even," said Elizabeth. "Your _uncle Fitz_ has brought down a very nice pony named Buttercup to live here in London for pony rides when little boys and little girls want them, and I bet if you ask him nicely he will take _you_ for a pony ride."

"Is poor old Buttercup to live out the remainder of his years in a London mews?" asked Georgiana indignantly, for the moment distracted from her pain.

"Nay," said Elizabeth. "I made the same protest I expect you wish to, and Buttercup will be kept at Longbourn whenever we are not in town. There was some difficulty in negotiating the terms of his stabling there, as my father was not willing to accept a regular fee. So good old Buttercup has the high distinction of having French brandy exchanged for his hay."

"Pony? Bwandy? Uncaw Fitz?" asked Caroline.

"Yes, you dear little creature," said Elizabeth, picking her up and handing her over to Mrs. McClare. "You go with your nurse and find your _uncle Fitz_ and she will help you ask very nicely for a pony ride. I am sure at this hour of the morning no-one will care if you ride astride, and if _uncle Fitz_ makes any objections over that, you tell him aunty Lizzy said he must do it or she will be very cross with him."

"Uncaw Fitz. Pony," replied Caroline, much more content to be carried out of the room. Georgiana made every effort she could to keep her expressions of pain quiet for a few minutes, not wanting the child to hear her cry out, although it had reached the point where she very much wanted to do so. She groaned instead, and Matthew slipped his hand inside his coat and brought out a rolled strip of leather.

"Only if you want it," he said. "I had Hawke get one from Clerkwell."

Clerkwell's name was a reminder that Georgiana ought to be very glad for Dr. Whittling's calm presence as he put his head under the sheet again and said it wouldn't be but a few minutes more, rather than the two squabbling surgeons who had been supposed to attend her last birth, so quarrelsome as to leave Moll to do most of the work. Georgiana thanked Matthew – she had not thought to procure such a thing, but she had found it made the pain more bearable last time – and placed it between her teeth.

"Well that's one I've not seen before," commented Dr. Whittling, upon bringing his head back out and sighting his patient's mouth. "You find it helps with the pain?"

Georgiana nodded and winced. Dr. Whittling had been right, that it would not be but a minute more, and when a greater rush of pain hit Georgiana, he went back beneath the sheet and told her she should push. Matthew clasped her hand and murmured in her ear, "We both know how strong you are," and with this Georgiana bore down and pushed with all her strength. It could not be termed _easy_ , but it was certainly faster and less painful than it had been with Caroline. The babe's lusty cries could be heard almost immediately, and Georgiana sighed in relief, her pain ebbing.

"'Tis a boy," said Dr. Whittling. "A fine, healthy boy. Let Mrs. Tippett and I finish things here and then you may see him."

A boy. Georgiana removed the leather from her mouth and silently handed it to Matthew, weeping as she did so. He returned it to his coat and then laid his hand on her cheek, his eyes silently meeting hers, clearly understanding her thoughts at that moment.

Mrs. Tippett emerged holding the baby, and Georgiana's first reaction upon seeing them was to cry, with every affection, "Oh, he is so little!"

Elizabeth had come up holding a damp cloth scented with lavender, intending to wipe the sweat from Georgiana's brow, and looked rather pale as she said, "That – is not _little_."

Then the little – or not – bundle was laid down upon Georgiana's chest, and she could have no more thoughts for Elizabeth. Here was her son – their son – the boy who would have been a baronet, but was not. He would be someday, and oh, how Georgiana prayed in that moment that she would see him an adult. An adult, but not a baronet. Let him say good-bye to his mother before he gained the baronetcy; she did not think she could bear losing his father a second time, even in old age.

She held him there until she felt the faint pains of the afterbirth coming, and then handed him off to Matthew. It passed quickly, and then Dr. Whittling spent a very long time examining it before placing it in the basin provided to him by Mrs. Tippett, and pronouncing, "'Tis all of it. I shall return in an hour to check on you, and I will want someone in the room with you until this time tomorrow. I should be informed immediately if there is any change in your condition."

Georgiana nodded and thanked him. Most of the others left with him but Moll remained, to help her up from the folding bed and into another nightgown. She was not so sore as she had been after Caroline's birth, but still needed Matthew to hand the baby over to Moll, so he could help her up into the larger bed. Moll left them after this, and Matthew laid the infant down upon his mother's chest, drawing up a chair beside the bed so he could sit with them.

She unbuttoned her nightgown and positioned the infant near her breast, but he seemed content simply to lay there upon her bare skin. Georgiana smiled, in a sort of pure maternal contentment that had been denied to her after Caroline's birth, when she had been too exhausted to fully feel her happiness. It was more than that, though; it was that this boy would know his father, that they were all there together.

"How are you feeling?" Matthew asked, softly.

"Much better than after Caroline. I suppose the first is always the hardest, but I am very grateful right now for Dr. Whittling's draught."

"As am I – I hate to see you in such pain, dearest." He sighed. "Georgiana, I know things have been – difficult – and I am sorry. You deserve better. Our children deserve better."

"Things will get better, in time," whispered Georgiana, tearily ashamed of her unjust thoughts earlier. Her pain was over, but by his countenance it was clear his continued, and that it was intermingled with guilt. Then she felt the tiniest little hand upon her breast, nature having finally led her son there. She helped him into position, and when next she looked up at Matthew, the grief and pain had been replaced with paternal fondness.

"What would you wish to name him?" he asked.

"I had – I had intended Matthew – before."

He shook his head. "Not Matthew."

"It must be William, then," Georgiana said, naming what she had intended to be the boy's middle name, when she had thought it would just be her to name him. "I am fond of your older brother, but I will not have anything else. Not after Caroline's christening."

Before Lord Stretford's admission, it might have been his preferred name as well, but even now he nodded and said, "I understand, and I think in time I will be glad of it."

Little William suckled his fill, and then drowsed upon his mother's chest. Although Georgiana had been awake for almost a day complete now, she had no desire to follow her son into slumber. Having missed these moments of very early life with Caroline, she wished to experience them with her son. And thus when a soft knock at the door was followed by cries of "Mama! Mama!" in the hallway, she was still quite awake to see Fitzwilliam and Caroline enter.

Caroline located her mother quickly and scampered over to the bed only to stop short at the sight of her younger brother. Her eyes widened, her mouth opened, and a look of such extreme puzzlement overtook her countenance as to render her completely adorable.

"Come closer, my sweetling. This is your baby brother, William." Georgiana caught her own brother's eye as she said this, caught the understanding there. _Fitzwilliam_ was rather a lot of name, and Georgiana thought she could count on one hand the people she knew who actually called him that – a group that did not include much of his family, including his own wife – but William would be both for him and Lord Stretford. At her time of choosing it, she had not thought it would be so fraught with complexity in the latter man's case, but where her brother was concerned, she was confident he would be pleased.

Caroline stepped closer, until she was by her father's chair and could be hoisted up onto his lap for a better view of her infant brother. Her next manoeuvre surprised them all, for she used Matthew's lap as her base from which to clamber up onto the bed and engage her little brother in a staring match he was ill-equipped to win. He opened his eyes and looked briefly at her, then closed them again.

"Baby?" asked Caroline.

"Yes, baby," replied Georgiana. "Baby William. Would you like to touch him? You can if you are very gentle."

Caroline nodded, and carefully put her hand on the top of the baby's head, feeling the downy hair that was very much like her own, in her first weeks of life. Then she withdrew her hand, looked over her shoulder and said, "Uncaw Fitz, pwease lewphey baby Wiwwwim."

Fitzwilliam smiled, and obliged her by stepping closer. "How are you feeling, Georgiana?"

She was prevented from replying by Caroline, who suddenly recalled the very important intelligence she had intended to impart. "Mama! I roded powny!"

"Did you indeed? And did you like it? Would you like to get a pony of your own someday?"

"Yes, mama! Pwease smarbwas powny!"

"We will commission uncle Fitzwilliam to find you one, then," said Georgiana, finally able to look over to her brother and answer his query. "I am well, Fitzwilliam – I am very well."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I know some weren't a fan of Georgiana's nightmares, so I thought it worth noting that this is the only time in the book we'll be "in" them. It felt right to fit them against Matthew's nightmares, and to not leave that plotline completely dangling. You'll see more what I mean as we get further into the book.


	17. Part 1, Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

With an easier birth came an easier recovery, although Georgiana still felt the exhaustion of having to nurse little William so frequently. It could not be said that she had more help with this second baby, but she did have more skilled help in the form of Mrs. Tippett, who told her the same thing Matthew had when she had borne Caroline, that she should do nothing more than eat, sleep, and nurse the baby.

Yet she was feeling well enough for more, and although she remained in her bedchamber, she began brief sittings with the baby each day so that Mr. Thorpe could complete their portion of the portrait, and entertained members of her family there when both she and William were awake. Her most frequent visitor was Caroline, however, for she encouraged Mrs. Nichols to bring the child down to her whenever her mother was awake, not wanting Caroline to feel neglected now that she had a sibling. Caroline had a busy social life, however, and between playing with her cousins in the nursery, going with her great uncle to see Amelia at Cavendish Square, and riding Buttercup in Hyde Park under the tutelage of her uncle, she had very little time to want for her mother. When that longing for maternal affection did catch up with her, she was then eager to tell her mother of all she had been up to, in speech that began to resemble actual sentences, filled with actual words.

Her mother was most heartened to see that Matthew usually went with her, on the expeditions with Lord Stretford and Fitzwilliam. There was still a degree of reserve in his countenance when he spoke of Lord Stretford, but with their brother, he seemed to be forming that friendship Georgiana had always wished to see. She had her best evidence of this about a fortnight after William's birth, when Miller knocked on the door to her bedchamber and informed Mrs. Tippett that Lady Stanton was to go to the window if she was awake. As Georgiana was awake, this request was passed on to her, and she pulled on a dressing gown and walked over to the window. Although giving birth is not generally known to impact one's arms, Mrs. Tippett still insisted on lifting the window for her, and Georgiana peered out, unsure of what she was to see.

"Mama, lookit me!" cried Caroline. She was seated – in a very small side-saddle, no less – on top of Buttercup's back, looking pleased and proud to be there. Matthew was by her side, presumably to catch her if she lost her balance, and Fitzwilliam was holding the pony's lead line. They both looked equally pleased and proud.

Was there anything so well designed to touch the heart as such a scene? Georgiana smiled with every fondness, and called down, "What an accomplished young horsewoman you are, Caroline!"

"Watch, mama!" was the child's response, and then she seemed to be directing Fitzwilliam to lead the pony into a walk. Georgiana was glad Matthew was there to catch her, but his intervention was not needed – Caroline remained quite comfortably balanced as she was led up and down a little stretch of Curzon Street. They drew to a halt in front of the house again, and Georgiana called down, "Very well done, sweetling! I hope your uncle Fitzwilliam will help us find you a pony of your own, for it seems you are more ready for one than I realised."

William began to cry, then, and Georgiana withdrew from the window so she could nurse him, but the man she presumed to be the instigator of the riding demonstration came up to visit with her a little later. Georgiana expressed her delight at seeing Caroline so comfortable, so happy to be riding, and Fitzwilliam proclaimed her to be a natural, like her mother.

"However did you manage to find a saddle so small?" asked Georgiana.

"It is yours, do you not recall it? I had it sent down from Pemberley – still in excellent condition after all these years," he said. "It's still a bit large for her, but her legs are short for a pony of Buttercup's girth, and this has been more comfortable for her than riding astride."

"I do not recall what age I started at, but I find myself glad to see her begin so early. 'Tis clear she enjoys it very much."

"You were not yet in your fifth year," he said, softly. "Papa and I started you on it as something to cheer you, after mama's death."

"Oh – oh of course," she said, remembering vague snippets of that time, of her father carefully positioning her on a much younger Buttercup's side-saddle and saying, "now there you are, my little sweetling," as Fitzwilliam held the pony's lead line.

In the silence that followed, he drew a chair over to the bed, where she was lying with several pillows propped up behind her back, holding William in her arms.

"May I?" he asked, and she carefully handed the infant to him.

Silence, again, until he said, "It has been so good, to get to spend this time together as a family, particularly to know Matthew and Caroline better, even if it does mean I am now called _uncle Fitz_ by entirely too many people."

Georgiana chuckled.

"I fear we shall not be staying as long as I might have liked to, otherwise," he said. "Elizabeth is eager to return to ensure all is well with Mrs. Sinclair and her daughter, and I share her concern over what upheaval the new Mr. Sinclair may have caused within the neighbourhood since we have been gone. We shall stay through William's christening and your churching, of course, but after that we intend to return home."

"I understand. I cannot believe Mr. Sinclair is gone – I would never have thought of him as ill in health."

"I would have said the same thing about our father, six months before his death. I hate to say thus, but at least he had a period of poor health, so we had some warning of what was to come. Poor Sinclair's wife and child had nothing."

"What did papa die of? It was never really clear to me. At the time, I only understood he was declining."

"He had a dropsy of the heart."

Georgiana felt a strange, cold chill run through her, and she shuddered.

"Georgiana? Are you unwell? Is it too cold in this room? Here, let me get you another blanket," he said, handing William back to her. He did so, and then stoked the fire for good measure.

"I am fine, Fitzwilliam," she said, once all of this was done. "Just – thinking about papa dying. It's a bit unnerving."

"Of course," he said, then added, hesitantly: "Georgiana, are things better, between you and Matthew?"

"They are. I will not say they are completely better, but they are improving," Georgiana told him.

Yet she was wrong. She did not understand this for a very long time – it was not until after William's christening, after her own churching, after the Darcys had returned home, that she came to understand most of what had seemed Matthew's improvement was all an act. Perhaps if it had not been for William, she might have noticed sooner, but he was still at the age where his needs were substantial and frequent, and in turn his presence enabled Matthew's act, for when Georgiana saw him it was as a father, coming into her bedchamber to hold William or change his tailclouts (to Mrs. Tippett's great astonishment), or bringing Caroline in for a visit after her various social engagements.

It was little William, though, who ultimately exposed the fraud. As he often did, he woke Mrs. Tippett in the middle of the night with a bout of crying that proved to be a need for sustenance. Mrs. Tippett in turn woke Georgiana to nurse him, but he was still restless even after he had nursed his fill, and she gathered him to her chest and began walking about the room with him, for this usually calmed him enough to return him to sleep. He remained fussy on this night, though, and eventually Georgiana took her perambulations into the hallway. Matthew had been given the bedchamber across the hall from her, and Georgiana was startled to see there was still light visible from underneath his doorway.

She opened the door without stopping to think – certainly without stopping to knock – and found him seated in a chair beside the window, his head in his hand. The bedlinens were violently twisted; it was plain he had suffered another nightmare, and when finally he looked up at her, it was with a countenance too tired, too overwhelmed, too – too _haunted_ – to continue with his act.

"Matthew," she whispered.

"Georgiana, I'm sorry. I am trying – I promise you, I am trying."

"Matthew, I do not want you to pretend you're better, or attempt to force yourself to be better, just for our sake. You cannot do that. I do not want you to do that."

Despite his mother's distress, William had begun to calm, and in the silence that followed her statements, Georgiana sat in the other chair by the window, gazing at Matthew in the candlelight.

"Please, Matthew," she whispered, "will you not tell me what it is in your nightmares that troubles you so?"

He was silent, and by his countenance it was plain he intended to remain thus.

Georgiana could not tell whether it was frustration, pain, or anger that finally pushed her over, but for the first time since he had returned she spoke sharply to him: "I am your wife! I have told you everything, even when it embarrassed me or pained me. Before William's birth, that nightmare I had, it was another awful dream about George Wickham, and you comforted me as you always do, but you won't ever let me comfort you. You won't even tell me what is in your dreams. Do you not trust me, Matthew?"

"It's not about trust, Georgiana – of course I trust you. Dearest, that you would ever think I do not, that my not speaking of it has caused you more pain – I am sorry for it, terribly sorry. My intent was to protect you, but perhaps in so doing I have done more harm than good."

"I think you have," whispered Georgiana, drawn from anger into sympathy by his tone. "Please, Matthew. Please tell me, whatever it is."

He nodded. "You – you recall when I first told you that I was to go over to the Icarus, how you had intended to go with me?"

Georgiana nodded. "You convinced me that it would be but a few days, and it would be far more comfortable for Caroline and I to remain on the frigate."

"You – you have never turned your mind to what would have happened if you had come with me," he said, his expression exceedingly ill as he looked her in the eye and continued, "Georgiana, what do you think would have happened to _you,_ when I lost control of the ship?"

It took her only a moment's contemplation to understand what he meant, and then the only thing she said aloud was, "Oh." Yet her mind was roiling with what Matthew had insinuated, what Matthew had tried to protect her from considering, the fate of a woman on board a ship full of men – some of whom had just committed murder – wherein her husband had lost that authority which had always formed her protection. Her mind drifted down some truly awful lanes of thought before she recalled herself – it had not happened; it would not happen – and sought to reassure him.

"But, Matthew, there was never any chance of that happening. You encouraged me to stay on the Caroline from the very beginning. I do not think _that_ formed your reasoning, but I was never in any danger. Even when – even when we were separated, I had Bowden for my protection, and Rigby, Egerton, Grant, Travis, all of your officers. And the men – they have always treated me with respect, because they respect _you_ ," she said. "Matthew, what happened on the Icarus was not normal. Those men committed murder, and whether they were pushed to it by abuse, or whether there was some flaw in their characters – or perhaps both – they were not acting as ordinary men do. I was always safe. I was always safe because your judgement was right."

William fussed then, and Georgiana was required to turn her attention to him, to rocking him in her arms and whispering, "shhhhhhh." She was slow to notice, therefore, that Matthew had left his chair to kneel before her, but she was certainly aware when he laid his head in her lap and began to weep. Leaving one hand for the baby, she gave over the other to rubbing Matthew's head, feeling very strange to be comforting both father and son. Eventually they calmed, both of them, and Georgiana said,

"Matthew, I want you to come back to my bed. I cannot say it is particularly restful, with William at this age, but I think it will still be more so than your being alone. I am not pregnant anymore, so there is no more risk to our baby. Come, please – be with me. Let me comfort you."

He looked up at her, and murmured, "Yes, my dearest."

Both Matthew and William slept through the remainder of the night, and Georgiana was of the hopes that now that the former had spoken of his nightmares, this might lessen their recurrence. It pained her to know that all this time he had been troubled by more than what _had_ happened, that his nightmares were over her own safety.

He ceased his acting after that night, allowing his countenance to be troubled when he awoke in the morning. Georgiana gazed at him in sympathy and shifted closer so she could kiss him, drawing her arms about his neck. She had a sense that he needed to speak to someone of what had happened, someone who was not herself or Lord Stretford. Someone from the navy, who might be able to absolve some of his guilt. The Ramseys had remained in town with them, intending to stay through a few more outings to the theatre and a ball of Lady Tonbridge's, but Georgiana also sensed that Captain Ramsey was not the person she ought to approach on such a matter. Captain Ramsey was a peer, junior to Matthew on the captain's list and now retired on half-pay, at least as long as there was peace. He and Matthew had been in the house together all this time, and if no conversation about what had happened on the Icarus had taken place thus far, it would not take place. Thus, after Matthew left her to go down to break his fast, Georgiana asked Moll to bring her some writing things, and scratched out a letter while William slept.


	18. Part 1, Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

This time, the Darcys did not return to Pemberley with any degree of contentedness. But for the recent upheaval in the neighbourhood, they would have remained in town for much longer, for Charles's health seemed little changed regardless of whether he was in town or country. They returned out of duty, therefore, Elizabeth's visits that first morning after their return the same ones she had made before, but the tenor of one very different.

She went to see Mrs. Sinclair first, wearing a plain lilac day dress out of respect for her friend and Clarissa. Those two seemed far better than they had before the Darcys had journeyed south; Elizabeth had been right that Mrs. Sinclair could not fully feel her grief – not begin to move past it – until any confrontations with Laurence Sinclair were over. The lady and her daughter were now living a quiet life in Fitzwilliam House, gradually making it their own, grateful for Elizabeth's visit and for the use of the house itself. The servants at Berewick having formed an opinion of their new master long before he had become thus, Mrs. Sinclair had seen no shortage of interest in following her to her new home, and thus tea was very promptly served to the ladies in the front parlour.

"'Tis such a fine house," Mrs. Sinclair said. "Your husband had everything fitted up just perfectly."

He had done this for his wife, Elizabeth knew: he had done it for her. He had established this ultimate protection for his wife, ensuring she would never suffer the worries Mrs. Sinclair had, the worries Mrs. Bennet might have had, for he had bought the house and what remained of the estate at of the former Barrowmere Park, finally giving Pemberley a dower house. She said nothing of this, however, and merely replied, "With the abundance of labour, he was eager to find projects for them to work on, so it was a convenient time to be fitting up a house."

"You must – you must think me very frivolous, to be speaking of the house at such a time, but I – I find it helps, to have a distraction, to have something to do." Mrs. Sinclair glanced down at her teacup. "I am sure there are those who look at me and think I feel little grief, that a marriage with a man so much older than myself must have been a marriage of convenience, but it was not. I never saw my Laurence's age, when I looked at him. I saw the man that I loved, not a man five and twenty years my senior. I always understood he would die before me, but not so _soon_. I thought we would have more time together, but still, if I had it to do all over again, I would choose him."

Mrs. Sinclair drew her handkerchief to her face, attending the tears streaming down her cheeks, and Elizabeth said, softly, "He was an excellent man, and I never doubted your love for him. You must grieve in whatever manner helps you most, without a thought to anyone else."

Elizabeth's words seemed to reassure her friend, but they did not do so for herself. Her mind was irrevocably drawn to women who married men older than themselves, and while a difference of eight years was not the same as five and twenty years, it was still a difference. She forced her thoughts away from such matters: Fitzwilliam Darcy had preceded her into his thirties, but if ever there was a man who could be described as in his prime, it was him.

She needed such reassurance to her spirits before her next call, to Mrs. Brown's tiny cottage. Elizabeth – and her alms – were received as gratefully as they had been on her last visit, the widow once again asking Mrs. Darcy to sit with her at the rough-hewn table.

"Jemmy's out, milady," she said. "Got 'im werk on Metcalfe's farm, but t'rest of us're verra glad 'a see ye."

"Has – has he had success, in finding work so far?" asked Elizabeth, hating that a boy of his age was required to do so, and yet admiring young Jemmy for his diligence.

"'Eeee has, milady. 'Eeee ain't so strong as 'is papa, min' ye, but 'eee's young an' nim'mle, 'an that's 'elpful, for some t'ings. Ee'rebody say 'ee's t'best 'a catchin' rats in t'par'rish. It'sa lot for a boy 'is age to take on, but 'eee's 'elpin' keep us fed. An' ye, a'course, I can't tell ye 'ow much yer aid's been a help, milady."

"And the collection from the parish, I am sure," Elizabeth said.

Mrs. Brown looked confused. "Milady, 'ere weren't no c'llexion from t'par'rish. Jus' what ye give us. Not that we askin', milady. We doin' well 'nough ou'selfs, with my washin' an' Jemmy's work."

"Oh – oh no, Mrs. Brown, there was a collection taken up, to provide you with a little pension. But Mr. Sinclair was organising it, the old Mr. Sinclair. I must presume that he did not give it to you before his death."

"Nay, milady. I ain't seen old Mr. Sinclair since a'fore Jim died."

"I am sorry," said Elizabeth. "I will look into what became of the collection."

"Thank'ee, milady. Not as we're lookin' for char'ty, but we're glad'a what 'elp kin be spar'd."

* * *

Elizabeth had intended to take the matter of the Browns's collection up with her husband as soon as she could find him. Yet when she located him in his study and entered that chamber, she found he had his own concerns to share with her.

"Houlton called," he said. "He was very glad to see us returned to the neighbourhood, but it seems it is too late for certain things. Laurence Sinclair has succeeded his father, as magistrate."

"But he – he cannot possibly be the most qualified candidate for the post. And is he not still in mourning?"

"His notion of mourning, it seems, extends merely to clothes. Houlton said he talks already of giving a dinner party," Darcy said. "As to the post of magistrate, there are no qualifications, as such. I did not think myself ready after my father's death, and I was glad when Mr. Sinclair took it on, but – "

"But now you are surely more suitable than the current Mr. Sinclair."

"I should hope so, but be that as it may, it is Laurence Sinclair who is now magistrate."

"Did – did you want the post?"

"I cannot say that I _wanted_ it, or even that it was as the top of my mind that Sinclair's death had created its vacancy, but if it was a choice between myself and Laurence Sinclair, I would gladly have done my duty in taking it up over him."

"It would have been much better for the neighbourhood if you had, but you had very good reasons for being away, my love."

He nodded. "Still, it troubles me that such a man will stand in that role here. We will need to be vigilant and ensure he does not abuse his position."

"There is more we will need to do, I fear. Mrs. Brown never received the collection made for her."

He bowed his head in frustration. "Then it is somewhere within Berewick, and we shall have to work to ensure it is given over to her."

* * *

Laurence Sinclair did indeed host a dinner party, a mere two months after his father's death. The invitations came to his neighbours on fine little hot-pressed pieces of paper, and his neighbours called on each other and discussed what was to be done about it. Mr. Darcy was of a mind to decline and cite in his response that six months had not passed, and Mr. Houlton, Mr. Watson, and all the rest were ready to follow after him. Yet Mrs. Darcy turned the tide – not because she was in favour of dishonouring the old Mr. Sinclair, but rather because she could not ignore the new Mrs. Sinclair's name on the invitation, nor could she pass up what might be the best opportunity for Laurence Sinclair to be confronted over what had become of the collection for the Browns.

Thus the Darcy carriage came down the drive to Berewick as it had countless times before, now for entertainments with a new master and mistress. Mrs. Darcy, however, had learned very well over the past few years just what fashion could say when words would be uncouth, and she alighted her carriage in the black silk dress that had been responsible for a great many lines of exuberant praise in the newspapers, when she had worn it to the theatre after the queen's death.

Her choice of dress was such as to visibly unnerve Laurence Sinclair when he received her, and it did the same for his wife, who was dressed in grey. Her countenance turned nervous and apologetic, however, at Elizabeth's sympathetic greeting, and she leaned close and whispered, "I didn't want to – I think it's too soon to be in half-mourning, but Laurence wouldn't – "

"I know," whispered Elizabeth. "Let me show that, when you cannot."

It was an awkward dinner; it could not have been otherwise. Elizabeth felt strongly the absence of the previous generation of Sinclairs, the genial host and the gracious hostess. What the assembled company had instead was Laurence openly criticising his wife over how the mutton had turned out, and leading a conversation centred largely on game and poachers. It was his intent to substantially expand the amount of game kept at Berewick, and he was so concerned about poachers that he had ordered man-traps laid across his land. "I am surprised," said he, "that the landowners of the neighbourhood have been so complacent about it. As magistrate, I intend to take a much firmer stance on poaching than my father did."

Of those at the table, only Elizabeth knew her husband so well as to understand how very much he was angered by this statement, for when he spoke, it was in a perfectly even tone: "Given the poor harvests of the past few seasons, I believe most of us have turned a blind eye to the occasional poaching."

This argument had no effect on Laurence Sinclair, however, and Elizabeth, suspecting what _would_ affect him, said airily, "And anyway, I daresay we have so many birds we hardly notice if a few go missing."

At this, Laurence Sinclair turned red in the face, and the topic was closed. Conversation through the remainder of dinner was stilted, until it was finally punctuated by Laurence Sinclair's stating to his wife, "Take the ladies through, Abigail. You ought to have done so a quarter-hour ago."

The poor lady flushed and rose from her chair, and Elizabeth immediately followed her, sparing Darcy a sympathetic glance. The topic of the collection for the Browns would need to be raised, and he would be the one to raise it. Elizabeth knew how much he loathed confrontation, and she was glad at least that he would have the other gentlemen of the neighbourhood present for support.

Mr. Sinclair's wife relaxed but little, after departing his company. She fretted over when the tea and coffee ought to be served, unsure of how long the gentlemen would remain in the dining-room, and Elizabeth, suspecting they would not linger as long as they usually did, encouraged her to have it out within the half-hour.

Elizabeth's suspicions were correct, for soon enough the gentlemen came in, looking perturbed. Her husband hid it better than the rest, but the look he glanced towards his wife was pure aggravation, while the young Mr. Sinclair was again red in the face.

"Abigail," he barked, "is the tea ready yet?"

"Yes – you see it is just coming in," she said, with a grateful look towards Elizabeth.

Elizabeth had told her that the Darcys would need to leave early, for she could only leave her youngest son for so long, and she was not entirely surprised that when they called for their carriage, most of the rest of the party did as well. Laurence Sinclair stated loudly as they departed that he had thought it was an older neighbourhood, and he supposed he would have to have some friends up from town if he was to have any entertainment.

"God send they are not so awful as him," murmured Fitzwilliam Darcy to his wife, who merely tightened her grip on his arm by way of acknowledgement. She was indeed very curious to learn the course of the conversation about the alms for the Browns – it was evident it had gone badly, but not how or why – but she would not speak of it until they were in the privacy of their carriage.

Once they were, Darcy exhaled sharply and stated, "It is only because of George Wickham that I cannot say I do not know a more infuriating man than Laurence Sinclair. Several of us saw the purse his father was using for the collection – it would have been the work of minutes to locate it in his study. If I had thought of it after old Sinclair's death I might have done so myself, and saved us all this trouble. Instead, his son insists we each give a written accounting of how much we donated. For the gentlemen that will be no difficulty, but none of us knows who else might have contributed."

"So you must approach every shopkeeper, tradesman, and farmer in the area?"

"Yes, if we are to account for the whole sum," he said. "I have half a mind simply to overestimate what I think Sinclair collected and just give that sum to Mrs. Brown and be done with it."

"Your principles will not allow that," Elizabeth stated. "In times like these it would be much easier to lack scruples."

He chuckled. "Yes, it would."

They arrived home to find Mr. Parker greeting them in the drive with a look of relief. "Thank goodness you are home – we were about to send a messenger. Master Charles is hungry, and he's refused everything they've tried."

Elizabeth rushed up to the nursery and there found signs that a battle had occurred. Charles was being held by Miss Sawyer, while Mrs. Nichols knelt before them holding a pap boat. The remains of various foods were strewn over the three of them – pap, gruel, crushed berries, and what appeared to be mashed pease.

"Oh, thank goodness you're here!" exclaimed Miss Sawyer.

This drew Charles's attention to her entry, and he looked up at her piteously and cried, "Mama!"

Elizabeth ran to him and picked him up without a thought to the ruin this would wreak on her famous mourning dress, and took him behind the dressing-screen. Mrs. Nichols followed her, to help with the dress, and as she was doing so, said, "I wish I could still have fed him, poor child. If it wasn't too late I'm sure I would have broken down and done so."

"Your milk has ceased, then?" asked Elizabeth, then adding, "careful Charles, darling," for her son was rather too zealous in his hunger.

"It has," said Mrs. Nichols. Her eyes filled with tears, and even before she spoke Elizabeth knew what she would say. "The lump is still there."

Elizabeth's own eyes filled with tears. "We'll have Dr. Alderman out, then."

Mrs. Nichols nodded and left them. Elizabeth watched her slip out from behind the dressing screen, then returned her attention to Charles. How they both troubled her, and how she feared for them both. She had wished to have Dr. McMullen look in on them while in town, but he had been called away to an outbreak of the putrid sore throat at a client's house in Sussex. She wished he had been available, for he was her favourite of the two; she found his quiet manners and lilting brogue far preferable to Dr. Alderman's confidence, which at times bordered on brash. More than that, though, she would simply have liked to ensure that their opinions on the health of both patients were aligned. Such things were not to be, however.

When Charles was finished, Sarah came behind the dressing-screen with a nightgown and dressing-gown, and Elizabeth changed before she and Martha brought him down to her dressing-room and put him to bed. He had greatly disturbed their nighttime routine at Pemberley, and yet everyone had just quietly adjusted to the changes, Darcy included. He was waiting in the mistress's bed – the mistress's great, ostentatious show of a bed – for her, and caught immediately that his wife was more troubled than she had been during the drive home.

"Elizabeth, my darling, what is it?" he asked, drawing her close.

"I am worried for Charles. There must be a reason why he will not take anything other than his mother's milk at his age."

"It is the most natural thing for him, is it not? Is that not what Rousseau says?"

"Yes, and I fear that is where I have erred, in allowing him to be nursed by another aside from his own mother."

"She nursed James and George as well, and they are both perfectly healthy boys."

"She did not have a – a cancer of the breast, while she did so for them."

His countenance fell. "The lump has not gone away, then?"

Elizabeth shook her head, and then completely lost control of her tears. He pulled her head against his shoulder and ran his fingers through her hair in a most soothing manner as he murmured, "We shall have Dr. Alderman come out tomorrow to look at them both."

"Tomorrow?" she whispered.

"Yes, tomorrow, unless he has an ill patient he must attend. We may not like the news he has to impart, but I would rather know than spend another day in waiting and worrying."

* * *

Dr. Alderman had no ill patients requiring his attention the next day. A Darcy carriage was sent to Matlock to retrieve him early in the morning and he arrived shortly after breakfast. He was shown up to Mrs. Nichols's room again and met there by Elizabeth and the nurse.

"Good morning, ma'am. I understand the lump has not changed?"

"It has not," said Mrs. Nichols, her voice thick.

"I will wish to examine it again," he said.

Thus they were required to repeat that same process that had discomfited poor Mrs. Nichols the first time, the object of the examination far more discomposed than she had been then. Back then, there had been hope that it was something other than a cancer, but after Dr. Alderman had palpitated it, he stated, "I am sorry to tell you that I cannot think it anything other than a cancer of the breast."

Mrs. Nichols nodded, but she was trembling. Elizabeth drew her arm around her nurse's shoulders as the physician continued, his tone grave:

"You have two options. Removal of the breast is the one with the greatest chance of longevity, but you must understand that the surgery itself is exceedingly painful, and not without its own risks. Your other option is to let the cancer run its course. It is impossible to say precisely how long you would have left, if you did so. Perhaps a year, two if you are very fortunate. It has not affected your health yet, but the time will come when it does, severely, and then – "

He did not complete his statement. It was evident enough to both Elizabeth and Mrs. Nichols what the outcome would be.

"I must have the surgery, then," stated Mrs. Nichols, pulling her dress back up over her shoulders.

"You understand – you understand the degree of pain you must endure?" asked Dr. Alderman.

"I have a son," she whispered fiercely. "I will do whatever I can – I will endure whatever pain I must – so that I can live to protect him to his majority."

He nodded. "There is a surgeon in Manchester I have worked with before – you may recall Mr. Robinson, Mrs. Darcy. He is the surgeon we had intended to trephine Lady Stanton after her fall, although thank God it was not needed. I will write to him and see if he has experience with the surgery."

Elizabeth and Dr. Alderman left poor Mrs. Nichols to finish dressing, and after he had closed the door behind him, she said, "Doctor, I would like for you to look at Charles, as well – he has never been particularly healthy and still refuses to eat solid food. I fear it is because he has been nursed by Mrs. Nichols, that – that perhaps the illness has spread to him through her milk."

"I have never heard of a case of a cancer spreading in such a manner, but let me examine him."

How poor little Charles howled, as he was examined. He required Elizabeth, Miss Sawyer, and Martha to hold him as Dr. Alderman prised his mouth open, the other boys looking on in abject horror. It took Elizabeth a very long time to calm him after the physician left, and when she went downstairs, she was told Dr. Alderman was taking a nuncheon with Mr. Darcy in the saloon. Elizabeth entered and poured herself a cup of tea, more to endeavour to calm her trembling hands than anything else; she had found the last hour's events almost as distressing as Charles and Mrs. Nichols had.

Dr. Alderman waited until she sat and then said, "I found no evidence of any tumours or lesions within his mouth. He did seem distressed by the examination, but I believe that to be more the natural reaction to having a stranger probe his mouth than anything else. As I said, I have not heard of any instances of a cancer transferring in this manner, but I will write to a few of my colleagues to see if they are aware of any."

Elizabeth exhaled, and the physician added, "Until then, I hope you will not worry. The child is of a healthy weight – he has no hesitance in nursing?"

"No, he always has his fill," replied Elizabeth. In truth at his present size his _fill_ was rather substantial, and she sometimes worried she would not have enough milk to sustain his hunger, now that it was just her to feed him.

"Pray do not let it worry you then, unless we hear there is cause to worry," he said, and returned his attention to the cold ham and sallad before him.

* * *

Elizabeth went up to see Mrs. Nichols, after they had seen Dr. Alderman to the entrance-hall. Knocking softly on the nurse's door, she found herself almost as softly bade to enter. Mrs. Nichols was seated upon her bed with her head bowed, glancing up as Elizabeth entered, her countenance wrought with pain and fear, her eyes bearing the redness of earlier tears.

"Ma'am," whispered Mrs. Nichols, acknowledging her entrance.

"I am so sorry," said Elizabeth. "I had hoped for better news."

"I know ye did, as did I, but it's not a time for hoping, anymore."

"What can I do?" asked Elizabeth. "We will continue to pay for your care, of course, and we will have one of the other maids help mind the children, while you convalesce after the surgery."

Mrs. Nichols's eyes filled with tears. "Thank ye, ma'am, that's very generous of ye. But there's something else I've got to ask of ye, and I know it's too much but I've got to ask it anyway. If I – if I pass, will you look after my George?"

Elizabeth had thought things would come to this at some point, and given the worry on the woman's countenance, she understood why Mrs. Nichols would rather raise the subject sooner than later. Laying her hand over the nurse's, she gave the answer she had come to as soon as it had crossed her mind that this might be requested of the Darcys.

"I hate to think of the possibility, but we will look after him if it comes to that, I promise you. And we will see to his education regardless of what happens to you. Have no worries for his future."

"Oh God bless ye, ma'am – God bless ye." Mrs. Nichols drew a very damp handkerchief to her eyes. "As long as I know George'll be safe, I can face this."

Elizabeth left Mrs. Nichols and went down to her bedchamber. To be in such an ostentatious place while feeling such emotions gave her an even greater distaste for the décor than usual, but it was the place where she could be certain of privacy from the rest of the staff. Not from her husband, however, who entered quietly and found her weeping on the chaise. He said nothing, merely sat beside her and enveloped her in his arms. This prompted a sob, at the thought that she had him to comfort her, that she had family, protection, all those things Mrs. Nichols did not. She recalled, as well, Dr. Alderman's statements regarding Charles's health, and while they had not been so affirmative as to cheer her, they were some comfort beyond what could be found in her husband's arms.

* * *

The next morning, he sought to cheer her, informing her that he intended to have both horses and ponies saddled after breakfast, and they were finally going to go for a ride together as a family. He had remained in bed with her to inform her of this, unusual enough in itself; he often rose earlier than her, and she had been sleeping later since becoming Charles's sole nurse

Darcy drew her close and said, "I know things are difficult right now, and they will be more difficult in the future, but it is a beautiful day, and you are going to go for a ride with your family."

Thus after she and Charles broke their fasts, the four oldest Darcys walked to the stables, James holding his mother's hand, and George his father's.

"Papa says we're gowing on a long ride," James informed his mother.

"Yes, my darling, we are," she replied. "Are you ready?"

"I'm ready!" James exclaimed. "I couwd ride all day if papa lets me!"

"I think you would be a very tired little boy if you did that," Elizabeth said. She was the recipient of a dubious gaze from her oldest son for this. Turning to George, she asked, "And what of you, George? Are you ready for a long ride?"

"Yes, mama," he said solemnly, giving her yet another glimpse of what his father must have been like as a boy.

They walked through the coachway and into the yard, where grooms were holding Flora, two ponies, and a colt the colour of a stormy sky. He was of a height comparable to Peregrine, and Elizabeth presumed him to be her half-brother, Gannet.

Darcy led George over to his pony and said, "Now what do we do first, George?"

"Check the giwth, papa."

"Very good, son," Darcy said. It seemed checking the girth was not yet something a boy of George's size could do on his own, and so one little hand and one larger one slipped beneath the leather band around the pony's belly, and then Darcy pronounced it to be good and tight, lifted his son up, and placed him in the saddle.

James was very nearly hopping with anticipation by the time his turn came. He helped his father check the girth, and when finally he was placed in the saddle, he picked up the reins eagerly, a look of raw delight on his little countenance.

"No cantering outside of the paddock, boys, do you understand me?"

"Yes, papa," was George's firm response. James's was less convincing, which prompted Darcy to add,

"Do you understand me, James? No cantering outside of the paddock."

"Yes, papa," was said firmly, although with evident frustration.

Satisfied with this response, Darcy walked over to Flora and slipped his hand beneath her girth. Elizabeth had always noticed him doing this before she rode, but had paid it little mind until seeing him instruct his sons on it.

"Why is it so important to check the girth?" she asked.

"Boys, would you like to tell your mother why we check the girth?"

"A'cuz if it's loose the saddaw will slip off," said George.

"The powny takes a big bweath, like this," added James, puffing out his chest most adorably. "Then the gwoom bucaws the giwth and the pony lets his bweath owt and the giwth is woose."

"And why was I never taught to check the girth?" queried their mother.

"Because it was quite enough of an accomplishment to get you upon a horse at all," answered Darcy. "I always check it when we go out together, and Marshall does so when you go out with one of the grooms, although Flora is generally too well-behaved for such trickery."

"Still, I think I ought to learn," said Elizabeth. "My horsemanship must be up to snuff if I am to be a true Darcy."

The man who had given her that name smiled warmly at such a pronouncement, then lifted the flap of the saddle, exposing the leather straps the girth was buckled to and naming them as the billets. He loosened the buckles by one notch and then took Elizabeth's hand, slipping it beneath the girth.

"Pull back on the girth," he instructed. "Do you feel the slack? That is too loose."

Elizabeth nodded, and then since the obvious solution was to tighten the billets, reversing what he had just done, she did so. Slipping her hand beneath the girth again, she found it to be much tighter.

"Are you ready, then?" asked Darcy, and upon her response that she was, he lifted her up into the saddle. She adjusted her leg over the pommel and slipped her opposite foot into the stirrup, then took up the reins and found herself the recipient of very curious glances from James and George.

"Mama, what is you doing wiss your legs?" giggled James. "You so silly!"

"Your mama is riding side-saddle, James, because she is a lady."

"I don't wanta be a lady," replied James.

"Well, then that is fortunate for you, because you are a boy and will grow up to be a man, not a lady," replied his father drily, springing up onto Gannet's back. Unlike his sister, the colt took this without antics, and although his eyes were bright, he seemed capable of holding his temper through a staid family outing. Darcy motioned to Elizabeth that she should lead the way. She did so, but once they were through the coachway, the party realigned themselves so that Elizabeth rode beside George and Darcy beside James, the family crossing the field leading to Pemberley Woods. George had a faint smile on his face, but it was evident he was very focused on his pony and his own horsemanship, and so Elizabeth did not seek to distract him. It was a glorious spring day, of the sort she had used to take for granted before the poor weather of the last few years, and she rode along in simple enjoyment of the day, of her family. Darcy had been right in thinking this to be what she needed, in understanding that this day, by his philosophy, needed to be seized before the difficult ones came.


	19. Part 1, Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

It took only a little scheming, for Georgiana to make it to her meeting. The deception being much easier when covered with a veneer of truth, she arranged an appointment with Dr. Whittling at his practise. He would certainly have come to Curzon Street if she had requested it, but she gave as her excuse that she was eager to get out of the house, and no-one questioned this. She'd had a slight fear that perhaps Catherine would think to accompany her, but – likely for understandable reasons – she never volunteered to do so. Thus Georgiana had only one last obstacle to overcome, and she did this by depositing some milk from her breasts into a pap boat, so Mrs. McClare could feed William if he grew hungry while she was gone. Matthew also offered to accompany her, but she encouraged him to take Caroline to Cavendish Square instead.

She did not ask Murray to keep her confidence; when he deposited her in front of Dr. Whittling's house, she bade him return in three hours, saying she intended to do a little shopping after her appointment and there was no sense in taking the carriage with Dr. Whittling's house so near to Bond Street. Moll, the only person who was thus far in her confidence (and who was generally in for any scheme so long as it did not break any of the Ten Commandments), was to shop in Georgiana's stead. This left Bowden, and after an appointment just long enough for Dr. Whittling to examine her and tell her she was healing nicely, she stepped out into the room where her footman waited and indicated they should leave.

He said nothing when she turned to walk towards Mivart's Hotel rather than Bond Street, but when she looked back at him the expression on his countenance was such that she thought it possible he would report this odd behaviour of his wife's to Captain Stanton, unless she gave him a good reason not to.

Georgiana slowed her pace. "Bowden, I hope you would agree with me when I say that Captain Stanton has not been himself, since he returned."

He looked at her, one eye coolly appraising, the other dead and milky. It was an unsettling gaze, but Georgiana held it.

"Aye milady, he ain't been hisself these three months."

"I am going to speak with someone I think may be able to help him. I hope you will understand why I did not want this known by him, or any others. I am not asking you to lie, merely that you omit this portion of my outing, if you speak of it."

"I understand, milady." His countenance showed no further scruples, but if he had any he had kept hidden from her, surely they were eliminated when a man old enough to be her father greeted her at the entrance, and moreover a man known by him to be most honourable.

"Lady Stanton," said he, bowing. "'Tis good to see you, and my do you look well for having borne a child not so long ago. A picture of health and youth, you are!"

"Admiral Russell, it is so very good to see you as well." She curtsied and looked at him affectionately, this man who had been so readily willing to travel here to speak with her.

"Nice place, Mivart's. Admiral Blake keeps an apartment here, but he's down in Pompey for the week and was happy to let me use it. I've got a private parlour reserved – we'll have some tea and cakes and a little talk." He led her through the entrance into a very finely appointed hall, and then up the stairs to an equally well-appointed parlour. The promised tea and cakes – as well as a great many other kickshaws – were already set out upon the table, and Georgiana availed herself of them thoroughly.

"I must thank you again for coming here to see me," she said.

"'Tis nothing. I've been meaning to come to town for some time to attend my investments, and Mrs. Russell has sent me with a great long list of things I am to purchase for her. Lord knows where I am to get half of them."

"Oh, my maid can help with that," said Georgiana. "She is over at Bond Street already. Bowden can go and find her."

Bowden was given the list and sent off to find Moll, which had the added benefit of causing his departure without the need to ask for privacy. Still, even when he had gone, an awkward silence threatened. It was easy to write, _my husband is having difficulties and you are the best person I know of to speak of them_. It was quite another thing to raise the topic in conversation.

Perhaps sensing this, Admiral Russell said, "I took the steam-ship in, from Gravesend. You been on it?"

Georgiana replied that she had.

"Remarkable, isn't it? Steady six knots the whole way. Never thought I'd see the like in my life. Mark my word, they'll be using them in the navy soon enough. Imagine a battle with no weather-gage."

Georgiana understood enough to know that this meant the wind would no longer provide one ship with an advantage, and her imagination conjured two ships chugging towards each other, each bent upon doing destruction. No skill, no art, just death, inevitable death, on both sides. It was an unsettling thought, and she pushed it from her mind.

He must have sensed this, for he said, "Here, my lady. Why don't you have another cup of tea and tell me what's troubling you. I'll tell you what I suspect, and it's that there was more to this Icarus business than was in the papers."

"There was," whispered Georgiana. She told him everything she could. Weeping often, but feeling a deep relief in finally speaking of all of it to someone, she told him what had truly happened on the Icarus, that it had resulted in a husband plagued by guilt and nightmares, his confidence lost.

Admiral Russell looked grieved. "There was nothing he could have done – nothing any of us could have done. I daresay if you had put Nelson in the that situation, the outcome would have been the same. Meanwhile the lad manages to keep his remaining crew alive for some hundreds of miles in open boats, and navigates to the Azores. Do you have any notion of the seamanship required to do what he did, Lady Stanton?"

"No," Georgiana murmured, shaking her head.

"It was tremendous, I'll tell you that. But he won't admit that to himself, I expect," he said. "I punished him the least of any midshipman I've ever had, you know. I could always see how keenly he felt his own mistakes – it was almost always punishment enough. Most boys who need it, it's because they've known no discipline from their own parents, but I had the sense he'd already known far more than he needed. Boys from genteel backgrounds are supposed to come on board ship and miss the comforts of home, to have to adjust to rigor and discipline. He's the only one I ever saw that was happy from his first day there, and the barest scrap of praise lit that boy up like a Congreve rocket."

It pained Georgiana terribly to hear him articulate what she had suspected. "His – his father is an awful man, a cruel man. I am very grateful to you, for what you did for Captain Stanton – if someone like you had not come along at that time in his life, I fear the damage his father did might have been irreparable. I expect it needs repairing, even now. He's spent his life trying to prove himself worthy to a man who was never going to believe him worthy, and I wish now that he had stopped after the Polonais. I wish I had made him stop, when he was at the zenith of his career."

"What's done is done, Lady Stanton. No sense thinking back on the past and wishing you could change it."

"But what do I do now?"

"I think you know deep down what you need to do – or rather what he needs to do. He needs to go back to sea and prove himself again. If his career ends on this, it will haunt him for the rest of his life."

Georgiana sobbed. He was right, of course, both that it was what Matthew needed and that she had known it herself, deep down. It would not be easy to give him back up to risk, though, not after what she had endured. "He has said he will not return to the navy, after – after what he put us through."

"You'll have to convince him, then."

"Will you – do I ask too much, to ask you to help do so? I do not know that he will, but at the very least I think it would do him a great deal of good to speak with you of these things."

"Of course I will. I'll call tomorrow and just say I came to town for a few days to attend to some business."

Georgiana wiped at her eyes with her handkerchief. "Do you think he will ever be able to be happy on land? I've begun to wonder if maybe this life he intends to have for the sake of his family will be nothing but sacrifice on his part."

"I can't say for sure. I don't think he can be content while he's got this at the front of his mind, though."

"Are you at all acquainted with Captain Ramsey?"

"A little, although I have not served with him."

"His wife was named heir of her father's estate, and so they are often there. He seems to have truly embraced life as a future landowner, but Matthew already owns an estate and he hardly takes any interest in it."

"Has it affected your estate? Are there any – difficulties? I know the weather these past few years has put quite a few under."

"No, The steward and I have been managing matters."

He looked contemplative. "You grew up on one of those big estates in the north, did you not, Lady Stanton?"

"Yes, in Derbyshire," replied Georgiana, who did not truly consider that county to be the north.

"Then it may well be that Matthew recognises his first lieutenant is more competent in such matters than he is, and he is perfectly fine with letting her have the management of them."

"But he will never be more competent if he does not make an effort to learn!"

"Some men enjoy the pleasure of learning new things, gaining new areas of expertise. I expect Captain Ramsey is among them," he said. "There are some men, though, who want only to gain the greatest mastery they can of one thing. Your husband is one of them. He decided when he was very young what he wanted to excel in, and I do not think he has ever deviated from it."

"Then he will never be happy on land." Georgiana sobbed again, and bowed her head.

"There are other things that can give a man happiness. The love of a good woman, his children – " he trailed off, here, and Georgiana regretted that he had reminded himself of one source of happiness that had been denied to him and Mrs. Russell.

They descended into silence, and Georgiana was grateful for a knock at the door. Bowden and Moll entered, the latter curtseying and saying, "I got all of it, sir, and they're takin' the parcels up to your room."

"Well aren't you an efficient little lass," stated Admiral Russell.

"My sister's the best lady's maid there is, sir. I know all the good shops."

Admiral Russell chuckled. "And modest, too. I am sure you are just as good as your sister."

"No I ai – am not, sir. Beggin' your pardon, but I only got my position because I don't get seasick."

This statement prompted true guffaws from Admiral Russell, and brought a rare smile to Georgiana's face.

"Well at the very least you've turned out your lady nicely, and you've helped me quite a bit," said Admiral Russell. "Now what is the butcher's bill?"

"Taylor has put it all on my accounts, and that is the last we shall speak of it," said Georgiana.

"Now, Lady Stanton, I can't let you do that. You must let me pay what I owe you."

"You came all the way here to speak with me, and it has done me a tremendous measure of good. If I could have, I would have brought gifts for the two of you, so let these be my gifts."

He looked as though he intended to protest, but saw by the firmness of Georgiana's gaze that it would be futile. Instead he stood and offered his arm to escort her out, Bowden and Moll following behind them. They began descending the stairs, and Georgiana could hear a party coming down behind them, speaking in French. They were coming down at a far more rapid clip than Georgiana and Admiral Russell – she having so recently given birth and he moving in that rheumatic walk common to older sailors – and they stood aside to let them pass. It was two men, and Georgiana glanced up at them as they passed, only just refraining from gasping.

"Lo – Lord Stretford," she said, bobbing a flustered curtsey.

"Lady Stanton, what a surprise to see you here," he stated. His voice was cold, his eyes hard.

"My lord, 'tis good to see you again. It's been some years, I believe," said Admiral Russell.

"It has indeed, Admiral Russell," said Lord Stretford, his eyes softening just slightly, as though perhaps he was beginning to comprehend the reason for Georgiana's presence in an hotel. They all descended to the stairwell, he murmured something to the man with him, the man murmured something back, and then he said, "May I present the Marquis de La Tour-Maubourg? Monsieur le Marquis, this is my niece, Lady Stanton, and Admiral Russell, an old friend of our family."

They all bowed and curtseyed, the marquis said he was pleased to make their acquaintance, and Georgiana returned his pleasantries in French honed by several weeks in Paris and ongoing conversation with her cousin Marguerite, which seemed to please him.

"The Marquis was just walking me out, Lady Stanton," said Lord Stretford, a bit of the iron returned to his voice. "Allow me to see you home in my carriage."

Georgiana almost said that she had come in her own carriage, then thought better of it. They would have to speak – it was inevitable now – and it was better to have it done with. She asked Bowden to see Taylor home in her own carriage, and although his countenance was reluctant, still he went, leaving Georgiana to the protection of the man he thought to be her uncle-in-law.

Georgiana had always admired Matthew's ability to keep a cool head even in the most difficult situations, and when she and Lord Stretford gained his carriage, she understood thoroughly that this was a trait he had inherited from his father.

"I do not," he stated levelly, "like to find my daughter – mere weeks after she has given birth – meeting with a man, regardless of who the man is, in an hotel."

Georgiana could not hold his gaze, and dropped her eyes to her lap. "I am sorry," she said. "I didn't know what else to do. He was the best person I knew, to help Matthew."

"You could have come to me."

"Forgive me for speaking freely, but you are part of what troubles Matthew."

"Dear Lord, Georgiana, you did not tell Admiral Russell of – "

"No, of course not. That is not my secret to tell, and I promise I will never tell it. But we spoke of a great deal else, and he is going to call on Matthew tomorrow. Matthew needs someone – someone from the navy, someone he trusts and admires – to absolve him of his guilt over what happened with the Icarus. We should have let the court martial go forward, but I am of the hopes that this will be some manner of replacement."

"That was my doing. You need not say _we_."

"I cannot deny that I supported what you did at the time, but I should have understood by his reaction then what it took from him. He – he is not well. He still has nightmares, more nights than he does not."

Any remaining trace of sternness left his countenance, given over to grief, to concern. "And you think speaking with Admiral Russell will help him, when speaking to us has not?"

"I do. Admiral Russell is the first authority figure Matthew ever knew, in the navy. And he – I believe he healed a lot of the damage Mr. Stanton did."

"Do you think I do not know that? Do you think it was an accident that Matthew was placed with him, out of all the captains I had connexions with?"

"No, I suppose not," Georgiana said, pondering this sudden defensiveness of his. Then it occurred to her that Admiral Russell was the one father figure in Matthew's life who had never betrayed his trust or injured him, and understood jealousy to be at work. She continued, firmly, "This is what he needs. There is something else he will need beyond this, and for that we will require your assistance. Matthew must go to sea again. I can endeavour to convince him to do so, but he will need another command."

"You are willing to do this, after nearly losing him?"

"I must," she said, giving in to her tears. "I want more than half a husband back."

He drew her in to an embrace. "There, there, my child. We will give Matthew what he needs. The command will be easily enough managed, so do not worry yourself over that. I wonder if the Caroline has one more journey left in her – I had been thinking to pay a call on Mr. Adams."

* * *

Admiral Russell called at Curzon Street the next morning, greeting them all as though he had not seen Georgiana the day before. She felt a little guilt encroaching, then – she did not like keeping secrets from Matthew, and here she had been, conspiring behind his back. It was for his own good, she reminded herself, and yet she knew the guilt would only grow.

After some pleasantries in the drawing-room with the Stantons and Ramseys, Admiral Russell proposed to Matthew that they have a little walk in Hyde Park. He put it delicately, particularly for a man who could not often be described as delicate, and there was no way Matthew could have refused even if he had wanted to. Georgiana saw by his countenance, though, that he did wish to go, and she saw them off hopefully, then went back upstairs to William.

Admiral Russell had called it a little walk, but they were out for a very long time, and this gave Georgiana still more hope. When Matthew finally returned, he knocked on Georgiana's door, entered, and closed it carefully behind him. William had finished nursing and fallen asleep on his mother's shoulder; they both laid quietly in the bed as Matthew approached, extended his hand and brushed his fingers ever-so-lightly over William's head. The child did not stir, and Matthew, catching his wife's eye, said, "You orchestrated this."

"I did," she whispered, trembling.

His hand shifted to her cheek, trailing his fingertips along her skin before he said, "Do not mistake me, Georgiana. I know you acted out of concern, and your concerns were surely well-founded. More than that, though – you did me measure of good."

"I deceived you, Matthew – "

He prevented her from saying anything more by lightly brushing his lips over hers, and murmuring, "With the very best of intentions, which came out as you had wished. Speaking of it with Admiral Russell, I feel – I feel as though a burden has been lifted from me."

"I am very glad to hear that – I had hoped it would be thus," Georgiana said. "There is more you must do, though. You need to go back to sea, Matthew – you need to take another command."

"Admiral Russell tried to convince me of this as well, and my answer to him was the same as I shall give to you: I made you a promise, Georgiana, and I intend to keep it."

"I don't want you to keep it!" she cried. "I want you to heal, to recover, and I will do whatever it takes, I will give up whatever it takes, to give you that chance."

Her agitation had disturbed little William, and she was required to spend some minutes in calming him before either of them could speak again.

"Are you prepared to wear black again?"

"Matthew!"

"Are you? Are you prepared to see me return to sea, knowing that may be the outcome?"

"Matthew, my mother died when she was forty, and my father when he was one and fifty, both of them on land. We cannot know what risks life will send our way, but now I understand what it is to live less than the life you should. Do not doubt that it would break my heart to wear black again, but it would break it just as much to see you give up at one and thirty, to simply stagger through to old age endeavouring to protect your wife and children."

"And have you orchestrated my return to the navy, as well?

Georgiana blushed, and cast down her eyes. He kissed her cheek. "Perhaps you have prompted it, but I am sure I know who wields the power to make it so. May I presume I will receive a summons from the Admiralty soon?"

Georgiana nodded. "You must go, and accept the command they offer."

"And If I do, am I to leave my family at Stanton Hall, or bring them with me on board whatever ship I am given?"

"You know the answer to that. You know we shall stay with you."

"Even as you know of my nightmares?"

"I have reason to think the assignment given you will be nothing like your nightmares, Matthew. Your father will make sure of that."

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Georgiana, is there anything you would not do to aid me?"

"No," she replied, with utmost firmness.

* * *

Georgiana was more right than she could have realised. Two days later, Matthew was summoned to the Admiralty, and he returned looking rather perturbed. "I have been assigned to carry Lord Stretford to America, for negotiations. And – " here his voice gained a touch of affection " – I am to do so on HMS Caroline. It seems she has one journey left in her."

His wife's reaction was one of happiness and confusion, although it was the latter upon which she spoke. "Lord Stretford said he needed to call on Mr. Adams – I thought he was someone at the Admiralty."

"John Quincy Adams, dearest. Their Secretary of State."

"Oh – of course. But what could they have to negotiate over? I thought everything with the late war was resolved, even the Pacific territories."

"So did I, but now the Americans are negotiating with Spain, and we do not recognise any Spanish claim in the Pacific. I cannot be entirely sure that a marquess was necessary to tell them that, although my uncle did get on well with Mr. Adams when he was their Embassador here. I suspect he offered to go with the stipulation that he could choose the captain that would convey him there."

"When would we sail?"

"Less than a fortnight. But Georgiana, are you certain you wish to go with me? And the children? William is still very young."

"I will have none of that argument, Matthew. His sister was born on a ship, and she has turned out wonderfully."

Wonderful Caroline might have been, but she did not take the news that she was to return to her namesake with any equanimity. Georgiana went up to the nursery to deliver the news and found Catherine there, playing with the little girl, something she did often since the nursery had emptied of playmates Caroline's age. Georgiana entered and Caroline pointed to the top of her head, where a thin ribbon was just barely holding onto her wispy hair.

"Mama, lookit what Aunty Catty did!" she exclaimed.

"Oh my darling, you look very beautiful – I do not think I have ever seen a little girl so beautiful as you," replied Georgiana. "I have come to tell you something. Papa has to go back to his ship, to go to America. So in a few days we will be leaving London to go to Stanton Hall, and then we will go aboard the ship. We will go back to sea again, won't that be fun?"

Caroline gazed at her sceptically. "Mama can Buttewcup go shiwp?"

"No, my darling, he must stay here in London. Ponies cannot go on ships."

"Can Jame and Geowge and Geowge go shiwp?"

"I'm sorry, Caroline, but they are at Pemberley and must stay with aunt Elizabeth and uncle Fitzwilliam."

"Can Amewia?" was asked with a trembling lip; clearly Caroline was beginning to anticipate the answer to her questions.

"No, my darling, she must stay with her father."

With this final refusal, Caroline's little face screwed up and she emitted her first few sobs, and when these did not result in her mother's acquiescing to one of her requests, she laid down on the floor and burst into a sobbing, shrieking tantrum that was far beyond what she had ever done before. Georgiana's attempts to be stern did not move her, and when she laid a hand on Caroline's back in an effort to comfort her, the child shrieked, "No! No! No, mama!" This did change the tenor of her upset, though, for while she continued to cry, it was a miserable sniffling sort of sob, which left Georgiana in the hopes that the storm was beginning to pass.

Georgiana glanced apologetically at Catherine and said, "I am sorry – I did not mean to disturb your visit with her."

"It's all right – she needed to know. Poor thing, I am sure there will be much for her to enjoy once she is on board the ship, but for now I am sure all she can think about is what she must sacrifice. I would trade her places if I could."

"Your sister still lives in America, does she not? Wilmington, if I recall correctly?"

"They were in Wilmington, but they moved to Baltimore a few months ago."

"Oh – Baltimore is where we are bound!"

"Would you carry some letters and parcels for me, for Lydia? It would be so nice to send her some things and be sure of her receiving them."

There were few things in the world Georgiana wished to do less than call on the Wickham household. She would have done it, if necessary, but seizing on an idea far more preferable to her and – she suspected – to Catherine, she said, "You could give them to her yourself, if you and Andrew wish to travel with us. We are carrying Lord Stretford, but I am sure we could accommodate you."

Catherine squealed, startling little Caroline entirely out of crying. "I would love to go with you, and if Andrew doesn't want to go, I'll convince him. Caroline – Caroline, my dear, isn't it wonderful? Aunt Catherine will go with you, on the ship!"

Caroline looked up. "Aunty Catty go shiwp?"

"Yes, Caroline," replied Catherine. She needed say no more to prompt the little girl to rise from the floor and run over in her toddering steps to pummel Catherine with an embrace.

* * *

Andrew was easily convinced. After Georgiana had verified that the Ramseys could indeed be accommodated – yes, Matthew had said, but in cabins off the wardroom, for Lord Stretford would require one of the captain's cabins, and the Stantons and their children the other two – Catherine approached her husband. Everyone had been encouraged to avail themselves of Fitzwilliam's study by that man before he had departed for Pemberley, but it was Andrew who could be found there most often. Fitzwilliam owned a great many books and reports that were invaluable for a man eager to learn more about estate management, and Andrew had worked his way through a stack of them since they had been in residence at Curzon Street.

He looked up and smiled as Catherine entered. "What happened to your dress, Cat?"

She looked down and saw the damp patches on the muslin. "Oh – Caroline had a tantrum, but I said something that cheered her, and she hugged me."

He eyed her carefully. "She's a dear little child, isn't she?"

"Yes," sighed Catherine. "If I could have one of my I own I think I would want a little girl very like her."

"Doesn't it pain you to be around such a child?"

"It does, but I would rather be an aunt than nothing."

He set the book down. "You're not nothing, Cat. You're a wife, and a daughter, and a benefactor to Longbourn's poor."

She gazed at him glumly.

"Do you wish to stay here longer, to spend more time with her? We don't have to go to Longbourn after Lady Tonbridge's ball."

"They will be leaving town just after the ball themselves. Matthew has been given command of the Caroline again, and they are to go to America – and I want to go with them. They're going to Baltimore, Andrew. I'll never have a better chance to see Lydia again – "

"Then we'll go."

Catherine's affections towards her husband were always strong, but oh, how she loved him in that moment! Very much as Caroline had done earlier to her, she threw herself upon him and embraced him tightly. "Oh! Thank you my love, thank you so much!"

"You needn't make such a fuss over it, Cat. This isn't the first time I've been ordered to sea on short notice, although it's certainly the first time it's been done by someone so pretty."

"It wasn't an order, Andrew."

"If you think asking for something with those imploring eyes of yours is not an order, Cat, you don't understand your power over me, and perhaps I shouldn't have told you."

Mischievously, she looked up at him and winked. "I promise to only use my powers for good, my lover."


	20. Part 1, Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers should be warned that there is a depiction of 19th century surgery within this chapter. You'll know it as you're getting to it, and may wish to skip ahead.

**Chapter 20**

If Fitzwilliam Darcy was looking particularly irate that morning, he could not be blamed for it. At the urging of his wife, he had invited Laurence Sinclair and Mr. Houlton to go fishing with him, and while Elizabeth was glad he had agreed to do so, she did not envy him a morning spent with that man. Her purposes for doing so were to try to sow some goodwill between the three most prominent families of the neighbourhood, and she was of the hopes that if the outing did so, Laurence Sinclair might adjust his requirements for the accounting of the collection for the Browns.

For her own part, it was an opportunity to continue in her endeavours to befriend the new Mrs. Sinclair, for she had invited Mrs. Houlton and Mrs. Sinclair to pass the morning with her in the saloon at Pemberley. Her preference would have been to have a tete-a-tete with Mrs. Sinclair, but there was no way Mrs. Houlton could be excluded from the invitation, and therefore both women arrived with their husbands, the Houltons in their carriage and the Sinclairs on horseback, the young lady riding some strides behind her husband. Mrs. Sinclair rode a staid old cob and appeared very comfortable upon him, and Elizabeth wondered if the creature was a remnant of younger, happier days when her parents had still been alive. Mr. Sinclair rode a tall blood horse, and when Darcy murmured, "He is much too heavy on that horse's mouth," she drily replied: "You have made me enough of a horsewoman to know you were going to say that."

Mr. Sinclair lept down from his mount's back, tossing the reins to his groom and eyeing Pemberley's dog cart in the drive, and more particularly the horse it was harnessed to. Seagull was an old post horse that had been saved from being worked to death at a coaching inn some years ago by Darcy; he had recovered his soundness but still bore the scarring of his years of rougher treatment, and no one who looked at him had any expectations that he had been a more comely horse before those years of abuse. If horses could show gratitude, however, he was one who showed it, and save Flora, Elizabeth did not think there was a more affectionate horse in Pemberley's stables, nor a more obedient one.

"Didn't think I'd see the likes of that coming out of the stables that produced the great Kestrel and Osprey," stated Sinclair.

"The path to the stream is quite muddy at present, and he is my most easily biddable horse in such conditions," stated Darcy, his voice so even that it was likely only his wife caught his fury.

Elizabeth caught his eye and strode up to the horse, reaching up to scratch the creature behind his ears. "And besides, we love our old boy Seagull, don't we? Mr. Darcy says there's no other horse he'll trust so well when it's time to teach our sons to drive, and so he is truly one of the most indispensable horses in the stable."

She threw Mr. Sinclair an arch look and then noticed his wife was still mounted, although the groom had come up to hold her horse. Of the looks she gave to her husband and Mr. Sinclair, only one bore fruit, and the one true gentleman between them was the one who stepped forth to help the lady down from her mount. This embarrassed perhaps everyone present except Mr. Sinclair, and Elizabeth walked over to the young lady and took up her arm, saying, "I did not know you rode – you and I shall have to have some outings of our own."

"Thank you," was lady's soft response. "I would like that very much."

While these events had been taking place, the Houlton carriage had drawn to a halt and that family were alighting it. Elizabeth was glad to see Mrs. Houlton had brought her daughter, who was nearer in age to young Mrs. Sinclair and would even out their party a little more.

She should not have been glad, though. Young Miss Houlton was betrothed in what was plainly a love match, and conversation could not but turn to her upcoming nuptials. Like the previous Miss Houltons, she was a fresh-faced girl with pleasing manners, but she could not help but be effusive over her betrothed: what a fine dancer he was, and what wonderful conversation he had, how much she was anticipating the running of his house in Derby, what great hosts they planned to be. Mrs. Sinclair listened to these topics quietly, her face unmoving save her troubled eyes. Elizabeth watched her carefully, understanding the young lady's jealousy, and vowing they would have that ride soon, just the two of them. She could not solve Mrs. Sinclair's marriage, but she could at least be a friend and perhaps a confidante.

As for the gentlemen, Darcy returned with a grave face and said only, "I am trying, Elizabeth – I am trying as hard as I possibly can, but that man is impossible to get along with." Elizabeth did not press him any further, nor did she make any progress on her own plans the following day, for Mr. Robinson was to come in from Manchester to perform the surgery on Mrs. Nichols's breast. Dr. Alderman arrived before he did, and asked Elizabeth for the use of a larger bedroom than the one Mrs. Nichols inhabited; he was offered a bedroom down the hall from Georgiana's old room. The physician pronounced it well-lit and asked to have footmen remove all of the furniture save the bed, washstand, and a few chairs.

Once she had given direction for this to be done, Elizabeth walked back to the nursery. Mrs. Nichols was there, wrapped tightly in a dressing gown, seated on the floor with her son. She was murmuring something to him, and Elizabeth averted her gaze, her eyes filling with tears. She could not imagine what she would say to her children at such a time and she settled for holding them each in turn as she waited, saving Charles for last so that she could offer to let him nurse once more before the surgery.

Mrs. Reynolds came in just after Charles had finished. Her face was grave. All of their faces were grave: Mrs. Nichols, of course, but also Miss Sawyer, Martha, and Sarah, who had followed Mrs. Reynolds into the nursery. It was only the children whose countenances were peaceful, innocent, save perhaps that of George Nichols, who seemed to have imparted something of the import of the day from his mother's murmured conversation.

"The surgeon is here," said Mrs. Reynolds. "They're ready for you, Mrs. Nichols."

Mrs. Nichols nodded, kissed her son's forehead, and rose. Her arms crossed tight over her chest, she followed Mrs. Reynolds from the room, Elizabeth and Sarah trailing behind her. "They said they'd need two people, to help hold her, and that it was better they be women, for her modesty," said Sarah. "So I said I'd be one."

"I can think of no one better to assist," replied Elizabeth.

Mrs. Reynolds, it seemed, had volunteered to be the other woman, but when they entered the bedroom and Elizabeth came to understand this, she claimed the place for herself. It was the prerogative of the mistress of the house to do so, although Mrs. Reynolds did still put up some little protest, saying that Mrs. Darcy need not trouble herself. She relinquished her position when Elizabeth told her firmly that she did intend to trouble herself for the woman who had cared for each of her sons since birth, and then encouraged Mrs. Reynolds – of an age at which she should not be expected to hold Mrs. Nichols with the strength of women in their twenties – to sit at the door so that she could summon any additional help or materials that were needed by the surgeon.

Thus the surgeon's assistants were settled, and Mrs. Nichols was told by that man to lay down upon the bed. It had been stripped of all but the sheets, and she clasped them with uncertain hands as she crawled into the centre of the bed and turned over so that she was flat on her back. Mr. Robinson handed Elizabeth a bundle that turned out to be strips of calico.

"Tie her hands and feet, tight," he said. "Even with ye holdin' her, she'll want'a move."

Elizabeth and Sarah exchanged a horrified glance but complied with his request, Elizabeth taking first a trembling foot and then a trembling hand and binding them on her side of the bed. She could sense Mrs. Nichols's panic, could see it in the woman's eyes, but could not think of what to say to quell it until Sarah said, "Breathe deep, Martha. T'will be over soon."

This did seem to have some benefit, but in truth the greater benefit came with the draught glass Dr. Alderman handed Elizabeth, saying it was laudanum. Elizabeth held it to the nurse's lips until she drank it down, and within minutes either the laudanum itself or the thought of the laudanum had nearly dissipated her shaking. During all of this, the surgeon had been arranging his knives upon the washstand, and he held one up and said, "I am nearly ready. Place the leather in her mouth, please."

Dr. Alderman handed Elizabeth a piece of rolled-up leather, which reminded her of little William Stanton's birth and how odd she had found it that Georgiana had wished to use such a thing. How did the pain of childbirth compare to the pain of having one's breast cut off, she wondered, just barely refraining from shuddering as she placed the leather in Mrs. Nichols's mouth, gazing sympathetically into her eyes as she did so. Turning, she caught sight of the size of the knife in Robinson's hand, and did shudder.

"Will you expose the breast, please?" he asked, and his command was followed by Sarah's careful hands.

Elizabeth could not watch. At the first sight of knife turning flesh to blood, she turned her head and focused instead on pressing all of her weight down on Mrs. Nichols's shoulder. Sarah was watching; Sarah who swallowed heavily but kept her hard, green gaze upon Mrs. Nichols's breast. Then all of the noises that could be made by a mouth clamped down upon a piece of leather were made, and her shoulder tensed beneath Elizabeth's hands, so tight it was clear Mrs. Nichols was shaking again, this time in pain, rather than fear. It became difficult to hold Mrs. Nichols; Elizabeth had to push with all of her weight, and still it did not seem to be enough.

It was hot in the room; a fire had been lit, and the air felt thick and close. Something wet hit Elizabeth's neck and she looked down just long enough to understand that it was blood. Blood was everywhere: thickly gleaming across the place where Mrs. Nichols's breast was half-removed, soaking into the edges of her parted dressing-gown, speckled across Sarah's dress and likely Elizabeth's as well. Mrs. Nichols opened her mouth so wide the leather fell out, and then she screamed, screamed, screamed again. Elizabeth and Sarah were too occupied with holding her down to replace it, and finally Dr. Alderman pried her mouth open long enough to shove the leather back in. Still, in Elizabeth's mind, the screams continued. It was the most awful thing she had ever experienced, and she had not even watched half of it.

"It's too much blood," Sarah whispered.

Elizabeth returned her gaze to Mrs. Nichols's chest to find what Sarah meant: the blood had spread, down Mrs. Nichols's side, pouring onto the bed, and still it pumped slickly from the space where her breast had been. Elizabeth averted her eyes and only just avoided retching. She turned her gaze instead to the surgeon and physician, and saw from them the first signs that all was not well. They were murmuring with their heads together, and although they seemed to be endeavouring to appear unworried, still, she could catch it in their attitudes. Dr. Alderman approached the bed at a rapid clip and held a bundle of flannel down upon the worst of the bleeding, and when Elizabeth looked at Mrs. Nichols, she saw the nurse had grown paler, her eyes half closed. She had ceased flailing, and Sarah reached over, removed the leather, and grasped her jaw. "You stay awake, Martha. You must stay awake."

"John? Oh my Johnny, I'm glad you came," Mrs. Nichols slurred her words as she spoke: John Nichols was her dead husband. "I'm so tired, my Johnny."

"Please – do something for her!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "Help her!"

"Do you think he's not doing all he can?" Dr. Alderman snapped back at her. "Shut your mouth and hold her!"

It shocked her, to be thus spoken to, but she was not angered; she did not have time for anger. Mrs. Reynolds did, however, and when Elizabeth caught her eye across the room, the housekeeper stood and mouthed, "Mr. Darcy?" and when Elizabeth nodded, fled the room. Then the surgeon approached with a poker from the fireplace, glowing red-hot, and Elizabeth shuddered as she realised he intended to press it into the wound. Mrs. Nichols's screams before had been nothing to the sounds she made now, the petrified animal shrieks of a woman thus tortured. Elizabeth felt her own chest ache, that such pain and suffering could be inflicted in the name of healing. She knew she would never forget the sound, so long as she lived.

The burning of the wound did seem to both slow the bleeding and bring Mrs. Nichols back to greater coherence. The surgeon said she could be untied, and Elizabeth and Sarah made quick work of her restraints. When Elizabeth freed her hand, she reached for Elizabeth's arm and touched it with a feeble hand:

"Mrs. Darcy, your promise, for my George – you'll keep your promise?"

Elizabeth looked in the woman's pale face and knew it would be wrong to assure her that the promise was not necessary. She had watched the pain and blood in horror of understanding something bad was happening, and it was turning for the worse. Only now, though, did she fully comprehend that Mrs. Nichols might not survive this day.

"You have my word," she said, firmly.

"Thank you," whispered Mrs. Nichols. She began to close her eyes again, and Sarah once again grasped her chin and told her to stay awake.

The door clapped open and there was Darcy, staring in shock at the scene before him.

"Get the child! Get her son!" cried Elizabeth, weeping.

He ran off down the hallway, and during his absence Sarah endeavoured to get Mrs. Nichols to take a glass of wine, but she could not manage more than the barest of sips. Then Darcy was entering with the child in his arms, and Elizabeth panicked that little George should see the charred place where his mother's breast had been, tugging the bloody dressing-gown up on Mrs. Nichols's chest as Darcy sat the boy down in the bed.

"Oh – yes – my little George, how I love thee, child," murmured Mrs. Nichols. She slowly slid her good arm about the boy, but had not the strength for anything else.

"Mamma, whats'a matter?" the boy asked. He never received an answer. His mother's eyes remained open for some minutes more, but it was Sarah who made the shift from possibility to certainty for them all, clasping her hands together on the blood-soaked sheets and saying,

"I, for my part, know that my Redeemer lives

"that He, at last, will rise on the earth.

"After I wake up, He will make me stand next to Him,

"and, in my flesh, I shall see God.

"The One I shall see shall be for me,

"the One I shall look upon will not be a stranger."

She continued on through other recitations as Mrs. Nichols's eyes closed, as her son noticed this and began shaking her in an endeavour to wake her up, shaking her uselessly, for as the boy descended into frantic tears, Dr. Alderman came over, laid his fingers upon Mrs. Nichols's neck, and said, "She is gone. I am sorry."

The adults understood the finality of his words, but little George continued to try to shake his mother awake until Darcy approached him and picked him up. "George, your mother has gone to be with the angels now," he said. "I know you can still see her body here, but her mind – her thoughts in her head – are in Heaven now, with the angels and with God."

"Can I go'ta Heaven, Mister Dawcy?"

"You will someday, but not now. Only when it is your time to go."

The child looked at Darcy as though he still did not comprehend his words, but he said nothing more, and when Miss Sawyer came in and said she would take him to the nursery to clean him up and give him some warm milk, he went without protest, looking back to where his mother laid on the bed in silent confusion.

This left the six living adults in the room: the surgeon and physician quietly packing up their instruments and physic; Darcy and Mrs. Reynolds surveying the scene in muted horror; Elizabeth and Sarah standing on either side of the bed in shock.

"I'll have some of the maids help clean her," said Mrs. Reynolds. "I don't want her waiting here like this until Ainsley arrives."

Darcy nodded. "Have someone help change Kelly, and then take her to her family's farm. She should remain there a few days, to recover. I will take Mrs. Darcy down to her chambers."

Elizabeth heard all of this, and yet still it seemed a surprise when he wrapped his arm around her waist and said, "Come Elizabeth, let's go down and change."

Elizabeth looked down at the blood spattered across her dress, the blood on her hands, the blood-soaked chest of the dead woman before her. She had pulled Mrs. Nichols's dressing-down up too hastily, had missed covering some of the charred skin. Elizabeth recalled again those awful moments, the shrieking, the smell of burning flesh, and her knees buckled.

"Easy, easy," murmured Darcy. "Let's get you out of here." He did not pick her up, but Elizabeth sensed that he was planning to if she weakened further. With his hand heavy on her back, he led her down the stairs to her dressing-room. Once there, he made a quick survey of her dress and then stepped behind her. Elizabeth had thought he would begin unbuttoning the dress, but instead he put a hand on either side, gripped tight, and ripped the fabric, straight down her back. It surprised her, but she thought it for the best – the dress was surely unsalvageable, and he must have sensed her desire to be out of this dress, to stop wearing another woman's blood. The blood had soaked through to the petticoat, which went the way of the dress, and then he led her over to the ewer and basin, painstakingly washing the blood from her face and arms. The water in the basin was a shockingly deep shade of pink when he finished, and he said, "I'll have them draw you a bath, too."

"It's too much effort, with all the staff has to manage right now."

"No one will begrudge you of it, after what you have been through. I will order one for Kelly as well."

"What we went through was far less than what poor Mrs. Nichols had to endure, and all for nought. She might have had years more, Darcy, years, and now she is gone, after enduring such – such torture."

She was weeping again, and he pulled her close. Elizabeth was more grateful in that moment for his strength, his stability, his love, than she could ever express, and all she did manage to choke out was, "Oh God, my love, it was so awful."

* * *

Her faithful attendant did not leave her when the bath was prepared; he remained to kneel behind her and lay his hands upon her shoulders, to eventually suggest she ought to wash her hair, and to help her in doing so. She got out only when the water began to chill her skin, pulling on a dressing gown and enlisting Darcy in a search through the wardrobes for her mourning clothes. When finally she emerged from the dressing-room, it was in a rather dishevelled-looking black dress that would not have passed Sarah's muster.

She took up his arm in a tight grip, to walk back up to the bedroom where Mrs. Nichols had died. There were Mrs. Reynolds and Annie, the head housemaid, and they had been busy. Mrs. Nichols was laid out in a clean white shift, her chest covered with a fichu and some manner of padding where her breast had been. Elizabeth's throat constricted at the sight of this. The sheets on the bed were clean and white as well, with no sign of blood anywhere, and yet Elizabeth found her mind continued to flip back to what had been here before.

"Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds, she looks beautiful," Elizabeth said, receiving a solemn nod in return. "I intend the house to observe a week of mourning, beginning this evening."

Mrs. Reynolds appeared a bit taken aback, but she nodded again and said, "They'll appreciate it, ma'am. It's been many years since we had a death in the staff, and never anything like poor Mrs. Nichols since I've been here."

Mr. Parker appeared in the doorway and announced Mr. Clark, who entered, bowed, and said, "I am grieved I could not be here to give her last rites while she was still alive – I went to Matlock this morning, but if I had known one of my parishioners was undergoing such a dangerous surgery, I would have remained at the parsonage."

"We did not fully understand the degree of danger ourselves," said Elizabeth. "My maid Kelly did recite some verses for her. I believe they gave her some comfort as she passed."

Mr. Clark sniffed and muttered, "Well, I suppose last rites from a papist are better than nothing at all."

"Mr. Clark! Need I remind you that Kelly attends your services more regularly than most of the born protestants in your parish?" exclaimed Elizabeth.

"Of course. My apologies, madam," he replied, although in a tone that left Elizabeth in some doubt of his sincerity. He took his prayer-book over to Mrs. Nichols's bedside and opened it.

Elizabeth would have remained for the ceremony but for poor harried Martha running into the room and whispering, "Ma'am, Charles has need of you, and they're all mighty upset, in the nursery."

The Darcys followed Martha back to the nursery at a rapid clip, and there found four boys in varying degrees of tears and sobbing. Charles was the worst, very upset and very hungry, and she scooped him up and carried him behind the dressing-screen, leaving his father to comfort the older boys.

James and George Darcy were both demanding the presence of their nurse with plaintive cries of, "Wherws Mrs. Nichaws?" and "I want Mrs. Nichaws!" and Darcy gave them the same explanation he had given George Nichols. That explanation had been given beside her lifeless body, however, and in the lack of such evidence the twins merely shifted their questioning: "When's she going to come back from Heaven?" was James's response.

"She cannot come back," stated Darcy. "Once your soul – your mind – goes to Heaven, it cannot return."

"But why?" asked James.

A long silence followed this, an understandable one. James had just asked his father to articulate something no-one could truly explain. Finally, Darcy said, "We do not know why, James. It just is the way things are."

"I think she will come back, papa. I wanta see Mrs. Nichaws."

"I am sorry, James, but you cannot see her. She is gone. She is dead."

"Papa is auntie Catty and auntie Gigi and cuzwin Cawo dead?"

"No James – they are still in London. They are not here, but that does not mean they are dead."

"Papa! How'm I 'apposed to know who's dead?"

"Your mama or I will tell you, if someone you know is dead."

Thankfully, James did not recall that they had once told him his uncle Matthew was dead, and this had proven to be untrue, unless he _did,_ and this was at the root of his misunderstanding of the permanence of death. While Charles drank his fill, James continued to discuss the possibility of Mrs. Nichols's return and who was and was not dead with his father, with neither side making much progress. Charles, at least, had calmed now that he was no longer deprived of his mother's arms and sustenance, and once Martha had helped with her stays and dress, Elizabeth returned him to his toys on the nursery floor.

"Darcy." She took up his arm and led him out into the hall. "We need to take them to see her body. It is the only way they will truly understand. And her son should see her again, now that she's – now that she has been cleaned."

"Elizabeth, I do not want that for them. Her son, perhaps, since he was already there when she passed, but not our boys."

"They will never understand without seeing her, my love."

"They will not understand regardless, Elizabeth. The notion of death is beyond children of that age. Please – please remember this is not my first time, with this," he said. "My father and I took my sister to see mama, after she passed, and it made poor little Georgiana hysterical. They still have both of us, and Sawyer, and Martha – it is better to let her fade from their memory."

"She suckled them at her breast, Darcy, and aside from us she has been the one constant in their lives since they were born. Do not demean her importance by saying she will fade from their memory. She should have become the woman they would call 'Old Nurse' with every affection, in twenty years' time."

"Elizabeth, I do not know how to express how strongly I am against this."

"Nor do I know how to say how strongly I am for it."

He took a strong, deep breath and then said, "Let us wait until tomorrow, to see how they are managing it. I do not wish to quarrel – not today."

Elizabeth nodded, but as she thought it could have given the children some closure before they were to be expected to sleep, she said nothing more and strode back into the nursery. Charles was still playing upon the floor, although his eyes were growing sleepy, and James and George Nichols appeared to be holding a conversation about the day's events near the hobby-horse, both of their little faces upset.

"Where is George – my George?" Elizabeth asked Miss Sawyer.

"Over there, ma'am," Miss Sawyer said, pointing to one of the three low little beds against the wall. "I tried to console him, but he didn't want me." George was curled up on his bed, quietly weeping. Elizabeth's heart broke for him, and she approached the bed, whispering, "George?"

"I miss Mrs. Nichaws," he whimpered. "I want'a see her."

"Oh, my poor little boy, I'm so sorry," Elizabeth said. She laid down on the bed beside him and pulled him into her embrace, allowing him to sob against her chest.

"Will you go to Heaven, mama? I don't wan'chu to go."

"I will try very hard not to, my darling boy, but it is not under my control."

Elizabeth awoke in the middle of the night, groggily comprehending that she was still in George's bed, her sleeping son in her arms. James, it appeared, had wriggled himself into a place by her knees, and it seemed one and possibly both spaniels were lying at her feet. She blinked in the moonlight, and only then saw Darcy, curled up in a ridiculously awkward fashion on James's bed across from her.

Upon noticing she had awakened, he whispered: "We will take the older boys – all of them – to see her in the morning. It will surely be upsetting for them, but I see the alternative could be far worse."

* * *

Just because it was the right thing to do, to take the boys to see Mrs. Nichols, did not mean that it was easy. Elizabeth was in agreement with Darcy that Charles was too young for this to have any benefit – his primary concerns were still in the state of his tailclouts and whether someone was available to hold him and feed him.

George Darcy had proven reluctant – nay, beyond reluctant, almost desperate – to avoid losing his mother's company, and so Elizabeth had taken him down to her dressing-room with her. She was surprised to find Sarah there, instead of one of the maids.

"Sarah? Whatever are you doing here? I thought Mr. Darcy said you should stay with your family for some days."

"He did, ma'am – I'll go back if you really wish it, but I'd rather work. It keeps my mind off of what happened," Sarah said. "And if I stay home my mama'd keep asking if I did something wrong, to make you send me there."

"I would hope your mother knows you better than that, Sarah," said Elizabeth, realising that George had left her side and was approaching Sarah.

"Kewwy?"

"Good morning, Master George." Sarah knelt down and George ran to her and threw his arms around her, entirely surprising Sarah.

"He has been struggling with Mrs. Nichols's death," said Elizabeth. "I think he is very glad to see any of his friends."

"We've all been struggling, ma'am," said Sarah, eyeing Elizabeth's rumpled black calico as she returned George's embrace.

"I fell asleep in the nursery," Elizabeth said.

Sarah nodded, and eventually they were able to coax George out of her embrace so that Elizabeth could be changed into a different black dress, one more thoroughly pressed and cleaned than the previous one; someone must have informed Sarah of the week of mourning.

When Sarah had changed her and done what could be done with hair that had been allowed to dry in a still more rumpled fashion than the dress, Elizabeth took George by the hand and led him back upstairs. Darcy was already at Mrs. Nichols's bedside with James and her son. Someone had brought in a set of bed stairs, so the boys could see her more easily, and they were both standing upon the top of the stairs, crying piteously. George Nichols had his hands laid upon her belly and was crying, "mama, mama, mama," over and over again, while James reached out to touch her arm and said, "she's cold, papa, why is she cold?"

"She is cold because when your body dies, there is no more life in it, and life is what makes you warm."

"If we makes her wawm, can she come back, papa?"

"No, James, once she is dead – once she is cold – she cannot come back."

"Oh." His little face fell, as though his hopes had finally been extinguished, but although he continued to sniffle, Elizabeth thought that at least for James, this visit had been beneficial.

"Would you like to come down and let your brother have your place here?" asked Darcy.

"Yes, papa."

James was handed down the steps by his father, and Darcy held out his hand to George, who looked up at his mother in alarm.

"You do not have to see her if you do not want to, George," said Elizabeth, softly. "You can say good-bye to her from here."

It broke her heart, to see him summon his courage and step towards his father, to hold his father's hand as he climbed the steps to stand beside George Nichols. He reached out to touch her arm, slowly, tentatively, and then drew his hand back as if he had been scalded, burst into tears, and tumbled back down the stairs to scamper into his mother's arms. It took a very long time for him to stop sobbing, and then he found himself the recipient of an embrace from James. When they separated, Darcy approached them. He had produced what appeared to be a handful of black crepe, and he knelt down before them. They had considered the children too young to be dressed in mourning for Matthew, a man they had hardly known, but now that they were fully breeched and had lost someone far closer to them, the Darcys had agreed it was time for this ritual to be explained:

"James, George, when someone we care about dies, we go into mourning. It is how we say good-bye to them and honour them. To mourn Mrs. Nichols you may wear a black band around your arm for one week, or longer if you wish. May I put them on you?"

"Yes, papa," said James, while George merely nodded, looking as though he might burst into tears again at any moment. Darcy tied the armbands onto James and then George, then rose and approached George Nichols. "George, I have an armband for you to mourn and remember your mother, as well. As she was your mother, you should wear yours for one year."

George Nichols looked up and sniffled. "Yes, Mister Dawcy." He waited while the cloth was tied around his arm, and then returned to crying over his mother's body.

Elizabeth took up her sons' hands. "James, George, why don't we return to the nursery and let George have some time alone with his mother?"

Darcy followed them, after ensuring that the maid who was sitting vigil would look after George Nichols and return him to the nursery when he was ready. Elizabeth had thought George would continue in his wish to stay close to her, but he seemed content at present with the company of the spaniels, who swarmed the boys as soon as they entered and endeavoured to lick away their tears, allowing Elizabeth and Darcy to slip away to break their fasts.

"We will have to determine what is to be done about George Nichols," said Darcy.

"I promised Mrs. Nichols we would look after him, if anything happened to her," Elizabeth replied, "that we would keep him here and see to his schooling."

"Elizabeth, I wish you had spoken to me of this."

"I – I did not think it would be an issue so soon," said Elizabeth, only now realising that he might be particularly sensitive to the Darcys taking on a ward from a lower class, particularly one named George. "We were always agreed that we would support his schooling, and when she asked, I could not think of disappointing her. I am sorry – I should have thought that you might not want a ward – "

"It is not that, my love. It is that we have no legal right to the child. If we did, I would gladly take him in, but what happens to the child now must be determined by his legal guardian."

"Oh dear God, I did not think there would be a guardian," said Elizabeth tearily. "I promised her, Darcy – I reaffirmed my promise on her deathbed."

"Elizabeth, come here, my love." He pulled her into an embrace. "You promised her with every good intent in your heart of fulfilling your promise, and because of that, I am sure your promise gave her much peace at the end of her life. We may still take an interest in the child, even if he does not stay here. I cannot think of any guardian who would be opposed to a benefactor for his education."

"The only family she ever spoke of was a brother in Manchester," said Elizabeth, "and she did not seem to be very fond of him."

"The child's guardian would have been named by Mr. Nichols in his will – it may be a relation on his side of the family, or someone else known to him. It is possible no guardian was named, but if there was one, he must have agreed it was right for the mother to keep custody of the child, and I can only hope this guardian will agree that it is best for him to stay here, as his mother wanted. David is likely to know of the terms of the will, and if not he should be able to get them from Lord Winterley. I will write to him after breakfast and send the letter by a groom so we can have his response as quickly as possible."

Although she had skipped dinner the night before, Elizabeth still found she had very little appetite at breakfast, and ate more because Charles required her to than for any other reason. She followed Darcy to his study when they had finished – she understood Sarah's desire for work, for distraction, and the rigour of working on the household accounts was more appealing to her at this time than any other. They were there for some time when Parker entered with letters, one for Elizabeth, from Catherine, and one for each of the Darcys from Georgiana. The timing of the letters was such that Elizabeth feared some incident had occurred in London, for although the letters were sealed in red, she had long since learned that they did not always have to be sealed in black to carry the worst possible news. Saying a silent prayer that everyone was well, she opened Georgiana's letter first and read with rather more relief than concern that Matthew was resuming his command of the Caroline and would be carrying Lord Stretford to America. Darcy would not be happy about it, of course, particularly after the loss of the Icarus, but somehow the risk of death seemed a far more distant thing when they had just experienced an actual death in their house. Elizabeth read on and learned to her surprise that the Ramseys intended to travel with the Stantons, so that they could visit Lydia. This was surely the topic of Catherine's letter, and Elizabeth opened it to find her assumption correct, and Catherine offering to carry anything Elizabeth wished to send to Lydia. There would not be time to go to Matlock, Elizabeth thought, so Lydia would have to make do with whatever could be found at Green's. And money – for once, Elizabeth had a means of sending her youngest sister money and ensuring that it not only remained secure during its passage, but also ended up in Lydia's hands – not George Wickham's.

"I presume you had the news from Georgiana?" Darcy asked, quietly.

"I did, from both Georgiana and Catherine. I know it must be – disturbing – to you, to know Georgiana is to go to sea again."

"I would much rather she stayed on land, of course, but that is not where my concern lies. If she and Matthew were having difficulties, I cannot think it for the best that they cross an ocean together."

"Perhaps she thought this would help. They _have_ spent more of their lives together at sea than on land. Maybe things were better there."

"I cannot be happy with that," said he, "but perhaps I will have to learn to be content, and hope you are right that they will be happier at sea."


	21. Part 1, Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would be remiss if I posted today without some mention of what has been happening with Austen Authors over the past week. I have left AuAu, as have many of my fellow authors. I'm not sure that I need to say more here - if you're reading this work, you already know what I've been endeavouring to do with this series, and you'll have a chance to see it still more in future chapters. If you have not been following and want to understand more of what happened and read Bella Breen's post (which I recommend), go to the Austen Readers group in Facebook. Last thing I'll note is that the Austen Authors admins removed all of my blog posts with them, but I saved the content before I submitted my resignation and will be working to populate it on my author blog in the future.

**Chapter 21**

It was a strange little idyll, that the Stantons and Ramseys had at Stanton Hall. The Caroline would not sail until after Lord Stretford had everything arranged in town for his extended absence, and so while the ship was almost fully victualled, Matthew had been able to spend most of his nights at his own home, entrusting the ship to one of her lieutenants: Rigby, Egerton, or Grant. They were all of them excellent seamen, young men who had trained under Matthew for many years and could easily be given responsibility of a frigate in her home port for a night.

The naval captains kept naval hours, and thus it was that Georgiana rang for Moll with the sounds of an active sword fight occurring in the park behind the house. They did this every morning, and while Georgiana had readily gotten the sense that neither was as fit as he had been during his last command, she also understood that Matthew was by far the more frustrated by this. He had regained most of the weight he had lost after the Icarus, but to regain weight and to be in the fighting shape he expected of himself were two very different things. Georgiana strode to the window and watched them as she waited. She wondered if it would be strange for Andrew, to sail as the passenger of a man who equalled him in rank so far as the navy was concerned. Knowing the two men, she thought it more likely that there would be some awkwardness on Matthew's part, that he would feel the pressure of having a knowledgeable observer. He had not complained of it, though, when Georgiana had proposed that the Ramseys should travel with them. It was possible he had thought of it, but he was not the sort of man to make a protest over such a thing, and perhaps it had actually made him feel more confident in this journey, for the Caroline was stocked with far more thorough-going seamen than any frigate truly had a right to.

The door to Georgiana's dressing-room clapped open, and then came Moll's lilting accent: "Mornin', milady. If ye've time, I've got the trunks all packed, an' I just want to talk over with ye about what dresses I've put in, to make sure they're what ye want."

"I am sure they're fine, Moll, but I would be happy to meet with you later, if you wish," said Georgiana. "In truth I'm most concerned about whether _you_ will be accompanying us on this journey. If it is too much before you and Taylor take up the lease on the inn, I would understand if you wish to leave your position sooner than expected. I believe Mrs. Ramsey and I could assist each other as needed."

"Aw, no, milady, I want to go. I don't think there's any doubt of our being back well before Lady Day, and there ain't much Taylor and I can do for the inn before then, 'cept save up as much as we can."

"And you do not mind being parted from him again?"

"Well, I'd not say I like it, bein' parted from me 'usband an' all, but Taylor and me, we got our plans, an' I'll earn the salary of a lady's maid so long as I can, milady."

"I understand," said Georgiana, "and I would ask you to aid Mrs. Ramsey, as well, while we are at sea, for I do not believe she has a lady's maid. I am sure she will be generous with her vails."

"Aye, milady," said Moll, her countenance taking on a shrewd look. "I mean, I'd assist a female guest of yours no matter what, but I'm right glad to look after Mrs. Ramsey even aside from the vails, 'cause she's good people. Then again, I guess it's good people as give good vails."

"I believe you are right," replied Georgiana. She took William up to the nursery and there found Catherine and Caroline playing with dolls upon the floor. Upon noticing her mother, Caroline stood up and ran over to her, so she could be kissed upon the top of her head.

Catherine rose and walked over to the window to observe some of the sword fight as Georgiana placed William in his cradle. "Sometimes I wish we got to participate in such pursuits," she said. "I don't even know if I would like to fight with swords, but it would be fun to _try_ it, at least."

"I cannot promise you sword fighting," replied Georgiana, "but I can have them put out a target and you can have a go with pistols, if you'd like."

Catherine turned and gave her an incredulous look. "Pistols? Truly? You shoot pistols?"

"Yes, Matthew taught me."

"Oh, then let us go – what fun!"

Georgiana asked Norton to have the target and pistols set out, and led Catherine out to the table on which the latter had been set. The pistols were a very pretty duelling set Matthew had purchased in France, and although he still used them from time to time, when the Stantons were separated, they always remained in the possession of his wife. Matthew had taught Georgiana everything about their maintenance and she had become quite adept at loading them; as she was doing so, she noticed they had gained an audience of two heavily perspiring men.

"Would you prefer to do the honours of teaching your wife to shoot, Captain Ramsey?" she asked.

"Nay, nay, I'll enjoy this far more, I believe," was his response.

As Matthew had once done for her, Georgiana directed Catherine in where to stand and how she should hold the pistol, and then carefully handed it to her and stepped back. "Don't worry about hitting the target the first time," she said. "Just get a sense for how it feels."

Catherine screwed up her face and pointed the pistol at the target, then pulled the trigger with far more gumption than Georgiana had done her first time. The pistol fired, and Catherine chirped – that was the only word Georgiana could think of to describe such a noise – as the smoke billowed about her hand. Andrew Ramsey found his wife's reaction entirely hilarious, and he bowed his head and guffawed for some time before finally saying, "Good God, Catherine, I had no idea you could make such a noise."

His humour was infectious, and Catherine turned bright red as she giggled with the rest of them. It was with her eyes still dancing that she was encouraged by Georgiana to take another shot. She was silent this time, and although once again the target remained unscathed, Georgiana reassured her that with a little more practise Catherine would soon enough hit it.

Georgiana asked the gentlemen if they wished to take a turn; they did, but encouraged her to go first, and so she reloaded the pistols and took up her stance with the first. She had not fired a pistol since Malta, and it was strange to think back to that time, to recall the hot, bright sun on her back, the scent of the sea air, the happiness of life before the Icarus. The pistol was the same, though, and she knew it well. Georgiana aimed and pulled the trigger, and as the smoke cleared, she saw she was near the centre of the target.

Andrew began laughing again, and said, "If this is the result of allowing one's wife pistol practise, perhaps we ought to stop now."

Georgiana smiled and felt her face flush a little. She took up the second pistol, adjusted her aim just slightly and fired again, hitting the centre this time. The Ramseys both clapped for her, while Matthew looked amused; he knew his wife's capabilities and knew she had enjoyed mastering this just as she had those other accomplishments she enjoyed.

"I'm not so sure I wish to follow that," said Andrew, but he did anyway. Matthew and Andrew both hit the target, but only one of Matthew's shots overlapped Georgiana's in the very centre.

They all continued until they were hungry for breakfast, Catherine finally hitting the target twice in her last turn. As they were walking back to the house, Andrew said, "And now that you know how deadly these Stantons can be, are you still certain you wish to travel with them to America, Catherine?"

Catherine laughed and said, "Oh, I am quite certain, particularly if it means we get to do this again!"

* * *

Thus began a morning tradition, although it did not last for very many mornings before Lord Stretford's post-chaise came down the drive to Stanton Hall, signalling to all that they must make their final preparations to go to sea. Georgiana was largely ready, and she had advised Catherine as to what to take, but Caroline was another matter entirely. She did not want to see any of her toys packed away in a trunk, and no sooner had a doll or a ball gone into her trunk than she was removing it and clutching to her chest. "No," was all she would say when Georgiana, Catherine, or Mrs. McClare attempted to coax her to give it back to them to pack away, and even what Georgiana had thought to be a significant threat – that she would have nothing to play with if they were not allowed to pack her things – did not move the child.

Late that night, therefore, Georgiana snuck into the nursery and helped Mrs. McClare furtively pack the trunk and lock it. Georgiana set aside Caroline's favourite doll, and when the child woke and ventured upon the inevitable tantrum the next morning, she was readily appeased by the reappearance of the doll, holding it in her arms during the carriage ride down to Portsmouth. As Catherine had predicted, the wondrous new world of a naval ship proved exceedingly interesting to the child. She was made to ride in the bosun's chair with _aunt Catty_ , clutching her doll tight in her hands as they were raised up and set down upon the deck. The two of them were helped out of the chair by Lieutenant Rigby, and then the doll was dropped upon the deck, forgotten, as Caroline and Catherine strode off to explore. Georgiana followed with William strapped to her chest, and was handed the doll by an amused Lieutenant Rigby. With her arm around both William and the doll, she went down to the captain's cabins, pausing in the doorway to the sleeping cabin. In these rooms she had passed some of the happiest years of her life, and some of the most awful days and nights. She was glad to be back, to have her journey on this ship rather than any other, and grateful to Lord Stretford for whatever manoeuvring had been required to make it possible.

Her reverie was broken by Mrs. McClare, who entered and said, "Oh, I'll take that, ma'am," retrieving the doll. She proceeded to check William's cradle, which had been handed down from Caroline and built specifically by Moll's husband for use on board a ship. It had a rounded bottom and could be set upon the deck and rocked if the seas were calm, but at present it was hanging from the ceiling as the adults' cots did, and Georgiana thought it best to try putting him in it whilst it was hanging but before the ship was in motion, so he could become accustomed to it. Caroline, of course, had had no such opportunities to adjust, and she was the one Georgiana was more worried about – it was one thing to be placed in a hanging cradle as an infant of William's size, and quite another to be expected to sleep in a hanging cot as a two year old child. Georgiana hoped that the sense of adventure that had overtaken Caroline upon reaching the ship would extend to a change in the place where she slept. Even the arrangement of the nursery would require Caroline's cooperation, for Georgiana and Matthew had decided that the children would use the sleeping cabin during the day, but be moved to the great cabin – along with Rebecca McClare and Moll Taylor – to sleep during the night. This would allow all of the adults use of the great cabin while they were awake, but would mean the children had no fixed room of their own. So long as he was content in his hanging cradle, William would have little notion of what room he was in, but Caroline – yet again it came down to whether Caroline would be bothered by the arrangement, the child who had been born not far from where Georgiana stood.

She went back up the companion ladder to see if she could find where Caroline and Catherine had gone off to, but did not see them when she emerged on deck. The first person she did see was Lieutenant Egerton, who was holding what appeared to be a letter and looking very distracted – so distracted it took him a long time to return her curtsey.

"Lieutenant Egerton, it is good to see you again," Georgiana said, when finally he acknowledged her.

"It – it appears it is now Lieutenant Lord Huntston," he said shakily, waving the letter. "This just came by express. There was an outbreak of the putrid sore throat in Sussex, and both my cousin and his son succumbed. I – I am a viscount."

"My God."

"The title, the estate, it's all mine – I never wanted it. This was always meant to be my career," he said, swinging the letter in an arc before him. "I'll have to resign the navy."

"Could you not stay, if that is your choice?"

"There will be matters to handle with the estate and my cousin's will, and I must ensure his widow is attended. I – I cannot sail to America at such a time."

Georgiana looked about her until she saw Hawke, and motioned that he should come over. "Hawke, please take Lieutenant Lord Huntston down to the great cabin and give him a glass of brandy, then have Captain Stanton go to speak with him." Hawke stared at her, perplexed, and Georgiana motioned with her hand that she meant the man he had known as Lieutenant Egerton.

"Thank you, Lady Stanton – I fear I am overcome by this news. I never thought my life could change so completely with a mere letter."

"Lieutenant, you are a good man, and I am sure you will do well in this new role, just as you have in your present one," said Georgiana. "Where in Sussex is the estate?"

"About ten miles west of Chichester."

"Then I hope we shall see each other again, once Captain Stanton and I are returned to England. We are not exactly neighbours, but our estates are not terribly far apart."

"I'd like that very much, my lady."

She watched him follow Hawke down the companion-ladder, his shoulders slumping and his gait slow. He had been one of those men like Matthew, she thought, determined to become the best he could be at one thing, likely because of his family connexions to make post captain someday, even in a time of peace. Now that had all been upended, and the new Viscount Huntston would face a whole new set of responsibilities, ones his prior life had ill prepared him for. Unlike Matthew, he had no wife who had inhabited the world he would now occupy, and Georgiana wracked her mind for any young lady near him in age who might serve the office, for she thought him a worthy young man, and he was now an exceedingly eligible one. She had not thought long before she had alighted on Miss Gillingham, and she resolved to see them introduced once the young lady was out in society. Georgiana suspected that once he came out of mourning, the new Lord Huntston would be beset by any number of avaricious young ladies seeking a title, an estate, and no more, and if she could give two genuinely good-hearted people of that sphere at least a chance to meet and fall in love, she would be glad to do so.

Georgiana was lost in the very pleasant vision of Lord Huntston and Miss Gillingham waltzing together at Almack's when a thought cut through her and ruined all of her equanimity: as a lieutenant, he would need to be replaced. Everything about the Caroline's journey to America had been settled so as to ease Matthew's transition back to sea, but now some new, unknown man was likely to be placed on the ship.

* * *

With the Caroline sailing so soon, Lieutenant Lord Huntston tendered his resignation to the port admiral, who might not have ever had such an application made to him before, but understood well enough the natural order of things: if a man had just become a viscount by death and not through naval action, he must be allowed to take up his place as a viscount. The Caroline was therefore assigned a new lieutenant, who was named Osborne. He was a surprise to Georgiana, although he should not have been; she knew there were older lieutenants in the service, but whenever possible Matthew endeavoured to get his followers assigned to posts on his ship, and most of them had served under him as midshipmen. Lieutenant Osborne was surely no younger than forty years of age, and judging by the amount of grey peppering his hair and his weather-beaten countenance, it was entirely possible that he had reached his fiftieth year.

He was not as friendly as the other lieutenants, but upon early acquaintance Georgiana could not be sure whether this was because he was more mature than the amiable young men, or of a more serious personality. It _was_ surely strange, on their second night of sailing, to dine with him and Lord Stretford as the elder men of the table, when it was Matthew who was the host – and Lieutenant Osborne's superior officer.

She did not form any opinions as to his mettle as an officer until the next morning. Caroline had taken quite happily to her cot, for she had found that not only was it a unique sleeping place, but it could also be made to swing to and fro in her waking hours, which she found tremendously entertaining. So that she was not too disruptive to William, Georgiana had plucked her up that morning and taken her up on deck, which she also loved, although it was not quite her favourite part of the ship: that was the manger, where the animals were kept and there was always a sheep, goat, or pig willing to be petted.

Caroline loved the deck because there was always something to watch, and because all of the seamen had decided that the proper way to give deference to the captain's daughter was to pass her, salute, and acknowledge her as "Little Miss." She returned each of their salutes with one of her own, which resulted in amusement for everyone involved in this new ritual. She enjoyed other things, too – standing at the railing (closely held by whatever adult minded her) and looking out over the water, kicking one of her balls along the freshly cleaned deck, or discovering one of the little treasures that had been hidden for her by one of her admirers. The latter were largely primitive little dolls made out of remnant rigging, oakum, and canvas, but each one was treasured up by Caroline as though it had been left for her by faeries, and it was entirely possible that she thought this was their source.

Her latest treasure was found within one of the gaps of the hammock-netting, and she had just plucked it out and turned to her mother, saying, "Look't, mama!" when the bosun's cry came out,

"Shorten sail! Stand by to take in royals!"

In the ensuing piping and subsequent orders that followed, Georgiana gathered up Caroline, the new doll clutched tightly in her hand, and carried her up to a place on the quarterdeck where she knew they would be safe from the ensuing activity. The ship was moving at a fine pace – too fine, apparently, if the command had come to shorten sail. Before her, Georgiana saw Midshipman Willmer throw the log and eventually call out that they were making eleven knots, which did not seem particularly outlandish to Georgiana. There might have been foul weather coming, though, and she determined that once they were done shortening sail, she would take Caroline down to the cabins.

She was startled then by a cry of "Bosun's mate, start that man!" and found that it had come from Osborne, the officer of the watch, and that the man it was directed towards – for the bosun's mate hesitated but then did his duty as ordered – was old Mills. Mills had certainly been an able seaman in the prime of his life, and while he still knew far more than most about serving on a man of war, he had lost more than a step by now. Horrified, Georgiana watched as the bosun's mate rapped him hard with his rattan, once, twice, three times, and she drew Caroline closer so the child would not see.

Mills stumbled forward and was struck once more. Poor young Willmer looked about him in horror, for he knew what had just happened was not the way of the Caroline, but he did not have the authority to do anything. He had long since learned that men could not inform on other men without being despised, but when his desperate face finally caught the countenance of the captain's wife and she nodded to him, he was assuaged. Lady Stanton was not bound by the rules of men, and she would express her anger over what had happened to the captain.

Express it she did, after she took Caroline below. Matthew was seated at his desk in the great cabin, his new epaulettes glistening in the sunlight streaming through the stern windows. His reaction was to sigh and say, "I will speak to Osborne about it. Whatever ships he was on before seem to have had men who needed to be driven much harder than the Carolines, and it will not take long for them to resent him if he keeps on like this. I do not even know why he thought we needed to shorten sail at the time – the Caroline has a goodly number of sea miles under her keel, it is true, but she is still an excellent sailor. She had another half-knot in her, at least, with her royals flying in that breeze, and there was no danger of carrying anything away. I did not like to hear that order given, but I must be careful with my critique of a new lieutenant. Starting a man as he did must be addressed, though, and I will do so."


	22. Part 1, Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

They buried Mrs. Nichols four days after her death. Elizabeth was not present, of course, and neither were Charles or George Darcy. Darcy had given the twins and George Nichols the choice of attending the funeral – first impressing on them that they would have to sit for a very long time in the church and there would be many people – and James had been the first to say that he would, George Nichols seeming to draw courage from him. Elizabeth's George, though, had worn a stricken countenance until Elizabeth had quietly reassured him that he did not have to go, and he could stay home and mourn Mrs. Nichols with her instead if he wished.

The coffin was carried out by a group of male servants to be placed upon the hearse, and then they all followed after it, the servants walking, Darcy and the two boys in the landau. Once again poor George looked stricken, as though he was rethinking his choice to remain at Pemberley, and Elizabeth laid her hand upon his shoulder and said, "We can go to the chapel to pray for Mrs. Nichols's soul, George, if you would like."

He nodded, and they walked thither. George had never been in this room, and he made an awestruck pause in the doorway before he followed his mother inside. She led him to a pew and showed him how to kneel beside her and clasp his hands together, then began a prayer, endeavouring to keep it focused on topics George could understand, that Mrs. Nichols had been their friend and nurse, that she was a good and kind person, worthy of her place in Heaven, that they hoped God would look after her son now that his mother and father were both in Heaven. When she had finished, she turned to George. He still had his hands clasped tightly together and his eyes squeezed closed, and she said quietly, "George, is there anything you would like to add to the prayer?"

"Mrs. Nichols was my fwend," he said, "Pwease tell her I miss her and be nice to her."

Elizabeth waited for him to continue, but this was the extent of his prayer. Tearily, she murmured, "Amen," and then said, "You may open your eyes and stand up if you are finished, George."

He did so, and thinking of another space unknown to him nearby, she said, "Would you like to go to the library? Sometimes when we are sad, it is nice to have a distraction."

He nodded, and she led him thither. There was little in the library to amuse a boy of his age – all of the children's books had been moved into the nursery when the twins were old enough to be read to – but Elizabeth did have one thing in mind, the collections of George's namesake. They were housed in a cabinet between two of the windows, and once George had again gaped at the room he was entering, Elizabeth led him there. "Let us have a look at what your grandfather collected during his Grand Tour, shall we?"

The cabinet was largely filled with the sorts of trinkets a man of that time would have found interesting – all of the art and antiquities he had collected were elsewhere in the house, save a marble bust atop the cabinet – and Elizabeth and George spent some time merely examining the snuff and patch boxes, tiny vases of filigree glass, coins, and stones. George cared little for the glass, coins or stones, but he found the workings of the snuff boxes fascinating. When he had finally opened and closed his favourite sufficiently, Elizabeth pulled a leather folio from the bottom shelf and said, "There are prints in here, George, of famous places in Italy. Do you want to look at them with me?"

He set the snuffbox down and nodded eagerly. Elizabeth took a seat in the nearest chair and pulled him up into her lap, and they occupied themselves for a very long time in looking through the prints. Darcy's father had been meticulous about labelling any that were not labelled as part of the print, which was fortunate, for the pattern they established was that Elizabeth should shuffle the previous print to the back of the stack and expose a new scene, and George would ask, "What's that, mama?" and she would then answer him. She knew the more famous landmarks but not by any means all of them, and George Darcy's thoroughness meant she always had an answer for his grandson.

They were only interrupted when a familiar, unexpected but very welcome voice said, "They told me you were in here, Lizzy."

"Jane!" exclaimed her sister, turning from within her seat to see her elder sister standing in the doorway. "Look, George, it's your aunt Jane."

"Aunty Jane!" exclaimed George, jumping down from Elizabeth's lap. The Colosseum of Rome was entirely forgotten in the superior attractions of a hug from Jane Bingley, and Elizabeth gathered the prints back together in the folio, returned them to the cabinet, and then followed after George seeking the same.

"I had no idea you intended to come here today!" she exclaimed.

"Fitzwilliam wrote us of what happened with your nurse, and he thought my presence would be of some comfort to you."

"He was very right," said Elizabeth, feeling an immense tenderness in her heart towards both of them: Darcy, for knowing the one other person in the world who could soothe his wife's soul nearly as well as him; and Jane, whose very presence seemed to lessen the heartache and pain of the last few days.

"We had intended to be here before the funeral began, but one of the horses lost a shoe. Charles has gone there now, though, to see if either of the boys has become fussy and wishes to come home."

"Are Bess and Emma with you?"

"Yes, we brought them – we thought it might cheer the other children."

"George, did you hear that? Your cousins Bess and Emma are here. Would you like to go and see them?"

George nodded vigorously, and so they all went upstairs. When they reached the nursery, George ran through the doorway towards the first of his cousins he could see, which was little Emma. Unfortunately for George and Emma, he ran much too fast and could not stop himself in time, and his precipitate approach was far too much for a little girl of Emma's age, when children are still not entirely sure on their feet. He knocked her down and toppled over himself. Emma began to cry, George started to rise in confusion over what had occurred in the preceding half-minute, and before any of the adults could reach them, Bess Bingley had struck him twice, crying as she did so, "Don't you huwt my baby Emma!"

It took some time for Elizabeth, Jane, Mrs. Padgett, and Miss Sawyer to put an end to this fracas, untangling the children. Bess was defiant, to be kept from her fisticuffs, George was in tears but just beginning to understand that he could use his own fists to fight back, and little Emma was merely sobbing. Emma was most easily calmed, having the benefit of Jane's embrace to aid in her recovery. Bess was carried away by the two nurses and instructed as to how George's apparent attack on her sister had been an accident, which left Elizabeth to carry one emotionally overwrought boy into a corner of the nursery and speak to him of what had happened, endeavouring to lessen his confusion and calm him.

He did calm eventually, and while children generally do not hold grudges, he beheld Bess warily until the other boys returned. They had – so said Darcy – behaved themselves very well during the funeral and the burial, but they were quite energetic and pleased to find new playmates within the nursery. George and Bess played together with no further ill-will, and when Emma finally wriggled within her mother's arms in an effort to join in the play, it was with the countenance of an happy child who could not remember that she had ever been knocked over in her life. Elizabeth watched her join the others with a certain pang in her breast: she still longed to have a girl, and a sweet little creature like Emma Bingley was precisely what she thought of when she considered having her own girl. Surely her next would be a girl, and hopefully the child would be of just such a disposition.

* * *

The Bingleys stayed overnight, and Elizabeth was half of a mind to convince them to stay for longer, for as long as they were at Pemberley, they provided a diversion from the repercussions of Mrs. Nichols's death. After a long, lingering breakfast and good-byes in the drive, however, the Darcys were required to turn their minds to practicalities – namely that one nurse and one nurserymaid could not continue to look after four boys, even with a bevy of maids removed from their usual duties to lend their assistance.

The subject was approached gently by Darcy, who took his wife's arm and said, "Will you come back with me to my study? We ought to speak of how the nursery is to be staffed."

That he was the one to broach it gave Elizabeth some hint of what the content of their conversation was to be, although they did not reach what she had expected until later. First, they were seated in the chairs before the desk and he said, "I received David Stanton's reply to my letter late last night. He had to consult Lord Winterley, as regarded Mr. Nichols's will. He did write down his wishes shortly after his son was born, and although there were no witnesses, Lord Winterley had no doubt of its veracity. George was left to the care of his mother and her brother, which now leaves the brother as his only living guardian."

"Oh Darcy, how I had hoped it would not be thus," whispered Elizabeth, overwhelmed with grief and remorse.

"I will write to the brother," said Darcy. "Let us hope he has no interest in raising the child and would rather George stay where he is – be assured I will do all I can to persuade him thus. Until we have his response, please do not worry too much over it. The most sensible thing to do would be to leave the boy where he is well cared for and will have the greatest opportunities, and that is here at Pemberley."

Elizabeth nodded, and he reached over and clasped her hand.

"I hope deeply that George Nichols will remain a part of our nursery, but even if he does not, we will need to hire a replacement for Mrs. Nichols."

"I had been thinking of that, and I would like to promote Miss Sawyer to be head nurse, with Martha to take her place as under-nurse. We will need to find a new nursery-maid, then."

"I do like the idea of promoting both Sawyer and Martha, but rather than hiring on a new nursery-maid, I believe it is time for the twins to have a governess. She would teach George Nichols as well, if he remains with us."

It did not surprise Elizabeth that things had come to this. Five girls might be raised at Longbourn with no governess, but the education necessary for James to take up his place at Pemberley and the other boys to succeed in genteel professions would have to begin with a governess. She had not thought closely on it, but had understood it deep down since the twins had been born. What she did not know was her husband's opinions on who would instruct them after the governess.

"I would be open to considering a governess instead, although I do not like the thought of having to look for a suitable one. It will take some time, I think, to find the right candidate."

"I am not so sure it will, and in truth it is why my thoughts tended towards hiring a governess. The Houltons's governess will be coming available, with the youngest daughter almost wed."

"In such cases, it is not usual for the governess to be pensioned off for her years of service to the family?"

"Miss Fischer is only in her middle forties – they were her first family – and I do not think Houlton will be able to do so. Their farms did not do so well over the poor weather of the last few years, and he mortgaged land in order to manage the youngest girl's dowry. I do not mean to say he is under water, but I do not think he will be inclined to keep a governess on his pay for what could be some decades."

"I see that I am peculiarly blessed, that my husband should propose a governess in her middle forties. Are not men supposed to want pretty young things as their governesses?"

"Not when they are already wed to pretty young things."

"Is that all I am to you, a _thing_?"

"Are you endeavouring to teaze me to divert me from the subject, madam?"

"No, I simply saw an opportunity and could not let it pass. I assumed we would get back around to it eventually."

"Hmpf. Well, what I had intended to say about this governess in her middle forties is that such an age would be a good fit for at least our present family. She can instruct the boys until they are old enough for school, and even a few other children that might follow, so long as her health is good. We would, of course, pension her off when there are no more children for her to instruct or she is too old to work."

School. So there it was then, what would follow after the governess, so far as he was concerned. "Must they go away to school, my love? Could they not remain here, with masters to educate them? I have never gotten the impression that you particularly enjoyed your years at Eton."

"Not my early time there, no, but I am sensible of the benefits it gave me and the friendships and connections that eventually resulted. It would have been far better if I had gone with any other boy than George Wickham as my closest companion, when I did not yet understand he had the heart of a viper. The twins will have each other, and hopefully George Nichols – they will all be much better positioned to manage the transition. They will need to learn to move in the world, Elizabeth, and Eton is the place where they will begin to do that. If I had been tutored at home until university, I would have been even more awkward in society, I have no doubt."

"That is not the word I would have used."

"Awkward was how I felt, not how I have appeared to others."

"And you do not feel that way anymore?"

"Not for some years. Five years, to be precise. Having a partner who knows me and looks after me has made all the difference, and it has been all the more so since she became so fashionable that I know everyone is staring at her dress rather than myself."

Elizabeth chuckled, and squeezed his hand.

"Elizabeth, I know it will be difficult for you as a mother to send them away to school, but I believe strongly that it _is_ the right thing to do."

She sighed, and nodded. "Let us pray we have a girl for our next, so her mother will have a companion who can remain with her for much longer."

"Would it be so very terrible if it became just the two of us again?"

"No, I suppose not," Elizabeth replied, smiling faintly. "I suppose I could become reconciled to living here at Pemberley with no-one else but my handsome hermit."

* * *

Life went on, as it must. Three days after they buried Mrs. Nichols, the Darcys asked the boys if they wished to go for a long ride, and the prospect of this cheered all of them. The children were happy to be out and riding, distracted from what saddened them, but feelings for the adults must be more complicated. Elizabeth had always envisioned the _four_ of them going out together as a family, and indeed they had done so. Yet now George Nichols was added to their number, and always would be – it would be cruel indeed to leave him back at the nursery without his mother. If Mrs. Nichols's brother would allow him to stay with them – and Elizabeth prayed the man would – George would be a part of their family, and yet not fully family.

After the week of mourning was complete, Elizabeth resumed her calls, taking the carriage over to Fitzwilliam House to check on the dowager Mrs. Sinclair and Clarissa, and visiting with Mrs. and Miss Houlton, the younger Mrs. Sinclair, and the other women of the neighbourhood. To the younger Mrs. Sinclair, she issued an invitation to go riding the following day, and the eagerness with which it was accepted only increased her sympathy for the lady. How awful it must have been, to move to a distant country with naught but a boorish husband for company!

They met as agreed at a point nearly equidistant between the stables of their respective homes, near what had been old Stonebridge Farm, now broken up into two farms, the smaller of which was farmed by the Kellys. Elizabeth espied Bernard Kelly out in the fields and waved to him, receiving a deep bow in return.

Mrs. Sinclair was mounted upon the same cob she had ridden before, and she was not accompanied by a groom as Elizabeth was. Elizabeth expected that her husband had not thought it a necessity – as Elizabeth's most certainly did – to have someone to see to her safety, rather than any desire of the lady's to flaunt propriety.

"Mrs. Sinclair, good morning," said Elizabeth.

"Good morning to you too, Mrs. Darcy. Would you – do I ask too much to ask you to call me Abigail instead, when we are in each other's company? I feel _Mrs. Sinclair_ belongs to my mother-in-law."

"I understand, and it is not too much at all, so long as you will call me Elizabeth."

"I would like that very much, Elizabeth. Your horse is very pretty. Laurence wants me to ride a thoroughbred horse like that, rather than good old Horace, but I haven't felt comfortable on any of the ones he's tried to mount me on. All of his horses seem rather wild."

"Flora is special," said Elizabeth, patting the mare's neck. "Mr. Darcy happened upon her at Tattersalls, otherwise I am sure it would have taken some time to find a horse like her, to be as handsome as she is and yet so well-mannered."

"I wish I could ask Mr. Darcy to look out for a horse for me, but I'm sure Laurence wouldn't like that."

"Shall we walk on?" asked Elizabeth, motioning to the path, and they did so. "How have you been getting along, with the management of Berewick?"

"Better, I think," said Abigail, looking more distressed than her words. "The staff that have remained have been good about following my orders and I mostly feel as though I know what orders I should be giving – but – it's just – Laurence has very high expectations of how the house should be run and I don't think it can be done with that many people, but he won't let me hire any new servants. He – I shouldn't be telling you this but he had many debts before he married and he's mortgaged lands to pay them. He doesn't want me to make any unnecessary expenditures but he still wants the house run the way it was when his father lived."

Poor Abigail was in tears, now, and Elizabeth looked over at her, concerned. "We retrenched in certain areas over the last few years, to endeavour to make more funds available for charity, so I have some experience in doing so. Would you like me to sit down with you and see if we might come up with a plan for how to do so in a way that will be less noticeable?"

Abigail nodded her head vigorously, attempting to blink away her tears. "Oh thank you, it would be so kind of you to help me."

Elizabeth returned from the ride in low spirits, worried about Abigail. In such a mood it was impossible to forget all else that might further depress her: the death of Mrs. Nichols and its continued impact on the boys in the nursery, the fact that someday she would have to send those boys off to school, then to university, and then into the world. She tried to turn her thoughts to more positive things as Sarah changed her, but she could think of very little to cheer herself beyond telling Sarah that she had seen Bernard and he had looked well. Even the garish space of her dressing-room irritated her far more than it usually did, and looking about her, she murmured, "Perhaps I need a project – perhaps I need to finally get about _this_ project."

"Ma'am?" asked Sarah.

"Oh, nothing – I was just thinking I might finally begin redesigning these rooms."

"If you don't mind my saying, they don't exactly suit you."

Elizabeth chuckled. "I do not think you could understate that more, Sarah. The trouble is, I don't really know what does suit me, or how to even go about beginning. I know what I do not like, but I have seen very little that I truly do like so well as to wish for it to have some permanence in my chambers. Mrs. Bingley has done far more decorating – perhaps I shall have her send me her old furniture catalogues."

It became plain from Sarah's countenance that she did not agree with this plan, but would not say it.

"Sarah, what is it you wish to say? Please speak freely."

"Well, ma'am, I usually read the whole of Ackermann's Repository, not just the fashion pages, and there's illustrations of furniture in there that I think would suit you, but I also think you should start with colour."

"I hope you are volunteering to help with this project," said Elizabeth, "for I suspect you have better-educated opinions than my own. As for colour, you know yellow is a favourite of mine, but I also like the idea of green, of rooms that feel like nature inside."

"I'd love to help, ma'am, if you'll let me. I like making things look beautiful."

"And you have quite an eye for it," said Elizabeth, inwardly amused at having been called a _thing_ by both her husband and her maid. "What would you say to this proposal – you know fabric better than anyone, so why do you not go Derby and see if you can find me some options you think I will like, for the curtains and bedlinens?"

"I'd be glad to, and while I'm gone, I'll leave the copies of Ackermann's with you, so you can look through the furniture pages and see what you'd like."

"We have a plan, then," said Elizabeth, and while she did not think it was the usual way ladies of great houses went about redecorating rooms, she liked it very much.


	23. Part 1, Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Elizabeth had not broached the subject of Miss Fischer during her call on the female Houltons. She had considered it, but it seemed strange to propose the poaching of Miss Houlton's governess with the young lady in the room. Somewhat guiltily, therefore, she left it to Darcy, who had the added advantage of being better-acquainted with Mr. Houlton, an acquaintance that had deepened since they had found themselves the two remaining responsible landowners in the near vicinity.

Darcy returned with the news that Mr. Houlton had gladly granted permission for the Darcys to interview Miss Fischer and hoped they would like her, for Mr. Houlton thought her too young for a pension but did not wish to see the woman distressed over needing to find a new position. He gave her an enthusiastic character and thought his children would be delighted as well, to know she would remain within the neighbourhood.

The gentlemen had fixed it that Miss Fischer would come to see the Darcys in two days' time, and by the time she arrived the Darcys had the relief of knowing she was interviewing to take on three immediate charges, not two. A brief letter came from Mrs. Nichols's brother with a few expressions of blotchy grief, and the lines that made Elizabeth burst into tears of relief: "I've got a good enough job here at a manufactory, but I can't afford to take the boy, and I don't have a wife or the like who could care for him. I reckon it's better for you to take him in over me, so I'd be glad if you did."

Elizabeth had proposed that the children be present for the interview, thinking they would be far more amenable to Miss Fischer if they had some introduction to her before she began her service with them. They held the interview in a bedroom down the hall from the nursery, but not the one in which Mrs. Nichols had died; that room remained closed off and was likely to be for some time, given the mistress of the house could not set foot inside without recalling the horrors that had occurred there. The Georges both waited silently, while James occupied himself with hopping from foot to foot and asking who Miss Fischer was, what a governess was, why a governess was needed, and why they needed to learn things. The Darcys were in the process of explaining the latter when a knock came at the door and Miss Fischer was shown in by Parker. All of the boys stared silently at her as she curtseyed to the Darcys and then to them. George Nichols thought to bow, the twins followed him, and then they all returned to staring.

"I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, and I see you have already learned some deportment, boys, which is excellent," said Miss Fischer. Elizabeth liked the warmth in her voice and countenance. The governess had a plain face with greying hair, and a slight plumpness that had likely gained on her over the years; her eyes were her best feature, both kind and intelligent.

"Miss Fischer, please meet our sons James and George, and our – our ward, George Nichols," Darcy said, motioning to each of the boys.

"I am very pleased to meet you, boys."

They were all seated, and although Elizabeth had thought the boys were there merely to meet Miss Fischer, it was James who asked the first question. "Are you gowing to learn us?"

"I hope that I am going to _teach_ you, Master James, and you are going to _learn_. A governess _teaches_ boys and girls about subjects like history, and geography, and arithmetic. Boys and girls _learn_ history, geography, and arithmetic."

"Oh," replied James. "What's histowy and geogwaphy and a-a-awithmijick?"

"History is the study of what has happened in the past. We learn about what happened in the past because it helps us understand our heritage and teaches us lessons we can apply to the future. Geography is the study of where things are. We learn about it because it is important to know about the land we live in and the world beyond England. Arithmetic is the study of numbers and sums, and we learn about it because we must know how much money we have spent and how much we still have."

"What's England?" was James's reply.

"England is the country where we live."

"No we don't. We live in Dewbishiwe," said George Darcy, quietly but with assurance in his voice. "Papa says so."

"You live in both Derbyshire and England, Master George," replied Miss Fischer. Using her hands to gesticulate, she proceeded to explain the relationship of Derbyshire to England, to the satisfaction of all of the children. By the time she was done, Elizabeth was quite decided in her opinion that Miss Fischer was absolutely the right match for the boys, so long as Miss Fischer thought herself ready to take on three such charges.

Fortunately, the boys continued to mull over the notion of England versus Derbyshire for some time after Miss Fischer concluded her explanation, leaving the Darcys an opening for questioning of their own.

"Are you quite certain you are ready to take on three young boys?" asked Elizabeth. "I must imagine they are some contrast to a young lady about to be married."

"I would like it very much, ma'am. Children are most fun at the curious age, although I'm grateful I had a chance to see all of the Houlton children grow up. I've had a good long rest and I'm – I'm ready for a new challenge."

"A challenge they will likely be. Are you prepared for three young boys who can be as rambunctious as they are curious?" asked Darcy. "They all have rather a lot of energy at this age."

"I can still recall those days with the Houltons," said Miss Fischer. "I find that if the lessons are kept short and mixed in with more active tasks, it's more productive. Games and horseback riding, of course, and if you will allow it the Houlton children and I managed a portion of the kitchen garden for many years. Children feel a sense of accomplishment when they help make things grow, and I think it's good for children born on estates to have some understanding of the land."

"I entirely agree," said Darcy. "Mrs. Darcy had our conservatory made over as an indoor kitchen garden when the poor weather began some years ago, and she has started the boys on it. At present it is a rather messy activity, however. I do not know that they have made anything grow, but they are exceedingly effective at scattering dirt."

"Ah yes, Mr. Darcy, but how much of that is done by them, and how much by their mother?" queried his wife, with no expectation of a response.

Miss Fischer smiled, her eyes letting on a deeper amusement.

"As for horseback riding, we often take the children out ourselves, but if we are not available, we would be pleased to have you do so on any day the weather is amenable. We keep a variety of mounts in the stable and can certainly find one to suit you. I had intended to start them on fishing, as well, once they have the patience for it."

They conversed for a little while longer on the sort of curricula she would begin the boys on, and when the Darcys were both satisfied with Miss Fischer's answers, Elizabeth turned to the boys and said, "Boys, do you have any more questions for Miss Fischer?"

They were silent until George Darcy whispered, "Is you going to go to Heaven?"

God bless Miss Fischer, she got down on her knees so she was at his height before looking him in the eyes and saying, "All of us who are good and obey God are going to go to Heaven someday, Master George, but for most of us it will be a very long time from now, and I hope that is so for me. But that is why we should be good Christians and go to church and honour God, and also why we should be thankful for our lives and appreciate every day that we have with our families and friends."

Rather than being mollified by this, poor George burst into tears and said, "But I didn't go to chuwch!"

"You are still very young to be going to church, Master George. God understands that little boys and little girls need to grow up before they go to church."

"And you did worship God, George," said Elizabeth, joining Miss Fischer in kneeling on the floor before him. "Remember how we went to the chapel and prayed?"

George nodded, and buried himself in his mother's embrace. His outburst had prompted tears from George Nichols, as well, and Elizabeth murmured, "You will need to start them out gently, I think. They are all still grieving and confused by their grief."

"I understand completely, Mrs. Darcy."

* * *

Miss Fischer was ready to begin right away, and the Houltons were willing to let her go to her new family, with only the stipulation that she be allowed to attend Miss Houlton's wedding in Derby when the time came. The Darcys were perfectly amenable to this, and so Miss Fischer started three days after her interview. Miss Sawyer was promoted to the position of head nurse and Martha – now to be called Browning – to that of under-nurse, both of them showing gratitude sobered by the circumstances. This allowed the rest of the household maids to return to their normal duties, which in turn allowed Sarah Kelly to be spared to go to Derby to look at fabric for her mistress.

Elizabeth dutifully took up Ackermann's Repository in Sarah's absence, perusing the pages featuring furniture and finding that Sarah had been right: some of the most modern items were the ones she preferred. She took to leaving little strips of ribbon to mark her favourites: the light, shapely chairs; the Grecian sofas and chaises; the polonaise beds utilising a sort of domed canopy tent rather than four posts to house their curtains. When she had paged through them all, she took up a pencil and paper and began sketching out where the items might go. The bed would go on the far wall, but since it would be turned sideways compared to the big old four-poster, it would not make sense to put a chaise at its foot. She would put one in the dressing-room instead, amidst some new wardrobes, and instead the bedroom would receive a sofa by the fireplace, as well as two window benches. On the wall against the hallway would be a new secretaire, and opposite the sofa a table and two chairs, for Elizabeth had intentions of enticing her husband to remain abed with her occasionally so they could break their fasts more intimately than they usually did. It alleviated – a little – the thought of losing all of her boys to school, of it truly being just the two of them again for much of the year.

Sarah returned with five swatches of fabric, but knew her mistress so well that the one she gave over first was the one Elizabeth loved. It was a yellow silk, embroidered with deep green vines, and Sarah gave it over with a cautious countenance. "It's the most expensive of all of them by far," she said, "but it's good quality and it sounded like exactly what you described, ma'am."

"Oh Sarah, it's perfect," breathed Elizabeth, for once heartened that she need not worry herself over the expense. She made a quick study of the rest of them, more to acknowledge Sarah's efforts than anything else, and then took up the fabric again, walking over to her window and holding it up. "I want to at least start on having the curtains made with this. Jasper will need to remove the panelling and I'll need to decide on wallpaper and all, but at least it would be a start – to help inspire the rest of the room."

"I quite agree, ma'am, and I'd be glad to send for samples of wallpaper."

* * *

Sarah's enthusiasm over the redecoration scheme was such that Elizabeth was surprised to find her countenance tense and nervous the next evening, when she came to change her mistress. Given her recent interactions with Sarah had been about her clothes and the redecoration of her chambers, Elizabeth wondered if the latter was the cause of Sarah's unease, that perhaps Sarah had discovered an error in the price she had named to her mistress. Elizabeth still had every intent to buy the fabric if this was so, and to assuage Sarah's guilt over it. Once she coaxed Sarah into speaking of her concerns, however, she learned they had nothing to do with clothes or furnishings, and were instead family.

"I – I don't wish to concern ye, ma'am, but while I was in Derby, Bernard went down a'Lambton, to the inn. He and some of the other lads of the village and thereabouts like to go once a week or so, for a little ale. Nothing more, I promise ye – no gin, nor even any whiskey – and he was walking back to the farm round about ten, and he heard a gun shot. He thought it was odd, and then t'was another, and someone shouted at him that he'd be shot for trespassing and stealing game if he didn't move along. Ma'am, he admitted he was cutting through a field, but it was Hale's farm – Pemberley land – and we're on good terms with Mr. Hale. And beyond that, I didn't think that was the Pemberley way."

"It is not the Pemberley way – not at all," replied Elizabeth. "Hodgson's patrols are allowed to fire their guns in the air to ward off a true threat to the birds, but surely they can recognize that a farmer's son walking home is no threat. Bernard is certain it was Hale's farm?"

"Yes, ma'am. My family knows the land of old Stonebridge very well."

"Of course. I'll speak to Mr. Darcy of it," said Elizabeth, fairly certain that whoever had accosted Sarah's brother had come from the Berewick Estate, not Pemberley. "Bernard should be allowed a little innocent amusement from time to time without fear of being shot as a poacher."

When queried on the subject later in the mistress's bed Mr. Darcy reaffirmed Elizabeth's expectation that the watch for poaching must have come from Berewick, not Pemberley. Indeed, the notion that such a watch had threatened the son of one of his own tenants – on _his_ land – caused a rather stormy response.

"The nonsense he has erected at Berewick is one thing," he rumbled, "but to even think he should be placing his watches and air-guns and man-traps on _my_ land is quite another, and if he is confused as to the boundaries, I will certainlyenlighten him. Bernard Kelly was not harmed, was he?"

"No, he was not."

"I am glad at least for that – he's a good young man, as are all of the Kelly sons. I will speak to Laurence Sinclair of it – Houlton and I are nearly done with the accounting for the collection, so I shall bring him two unpleasant topics, rather than one."

"Thank you, my love. I am sorry that it so often falls to your lot to deal with him, when his predecessor was so amiable."

"I appreciate that – it is my duty, of course, but it is nice to have one who recognises how difficult the duty is with the son when I was always so well-aligned with the father," he said, his eyes glassy. Apparently seeking to change the subject, he then added, "I noticed some swatches of fabric over by the window. Could it be you are finally beginning to redecorate these rooms?"

"I am. I thought I could use a little distraction just now, and the more time I spend in these rooms the more I feel they are not suited for me in their present style."

"I am glad of it," he said, pulling her closer and stroking her cheek. "I must admit it always troubled me a little that you were not eager to redecorate them, that – well, that perhaps you were not entirely comfortable here in your home."

"Oh please, do not say that! There are a thousand things that make Pemberley my home and the decoration of some few rooms is but one of them. You, our children, your own chambers, all the other rooms, Flora, the stream, the woods, Hanson Edge – "

He interrupted her listing with a kiss, and when they had finished, she whispered, "It is you, more than anyone, that makes this house my home. Wherever you are, that is home, regardless of any gilt or lack thereof."

* * *

Elizabeth did not get nearly as much sleep as she should have, that night, for she stayed up later than usual enjoying the amorous attentions of her husband, and then Charles had awakened early in the morning wishing to be fed. She could not manage to fall back asleep after this, and finally decided to rise and get about her day. It was well she did, for Abigail called upon her at the earliest possible hour, quite surprising Elizabeth since it should have been Mrs. Darcy's turn to call at Berewick.

Her friend's intentions for the call were unclear, as Abigail spent her first few minutes in the saloon gazing about nervously and making inane little comments about the décor and the weather, the last of which was, "Maybe – maybe since it's so fine we could take a turn in your gardens? I – I think it would be nice to be out of doors."

"Yes, of course," said Elizabeth. "You shall never find me in opposition to such a scheme. Why do we not have a walk in the rose garden? It is just behind the house. Or would you rather a longer walk?"

"Oh no, the rose garden sounds as though it would suit perfectly," replied Abigail. "I love roses ever so much."

Abigail gasped, upon sighting the garden, exclaiming that it was the prettiest thing she had ever seen. As she opened the gate, Elizabeth informed her it had been Repton's creation for Lady Anne Darcy. They were not but a few strides down the gravel path when Abigail turned to Elizabeth, wringing her hands together and whispering, "I thought you'd want to know, the Brown boy, he – Laurence had him arrested for poaching last night."

"Jemmy Brown?"

"Yes, I think so, they – they said his name but I'm not so good at remembering names."

"Dear God, what happened?"

"I don't know much – only that he was caught with a bird near the lane to our estate, and Laurence was quite happy to see his efforts against poaching bearing fruit. Only, I've heard something about the collection and that Laurence won't give over the money, and it's dreadfully unfair that the boy should be taken up when the debt we presently hold to his family is far more than the cost of one partridge. I – I tried to speak to Laurence of it, but he would not listen. He – he – "

Elizabeth waited for her to continue, but in vain. Although it was still early, the present weather was fine and sunny, and feeling quite warm due to both the sun and her own vexation, Elizabeth removed her shawl and draped it over a nearby bench. "May I take your shawl, Abigail?"

"No! I mean – no, I am still a little chilled," replied Abigail, but at that moment her shawl slipped down on one of her arms and revealed the true cause of her vehement refusal: there was a sizeable bruise on her upper arm that was most likely the shape of a man's hand, and if that was so, it was surely Laurence Sinclair's hand.

"Abigail – " Elizabeth reached out to her.

"Please, please don't speak of it. Please – I was impertinent. Please, just, if you can help the Browns without Laurence learning it was I who told you, I would be grateful."

"I can call upon Mrs. Brown today – surely she will tell me of it and then we can bring all possible help to bear for Jemmy."

"Thank you," whispered Abigail. "Will he – will he hang for it? Laurence said he deserved to."

"I – I do not know. No-one has been prosecuted for poaching in this neighbourhood since I have lived here, and in the only case I can recall from my old neighbourhood, the poacher was transported, not hanged."

"Oh, I hope that is the case here, then," gasped Abigail.

The only difference between hanging and transportation here, thought Elizabeth, would be a mother's heartbreak: with either, the loss of Jemmy's labour would leave the family even more destitute. Destitute at the hands of the man who had put them in this situation by withholding the collection that had been rightfully meant for the boy's family. She remained sympathetic for Abigail and concerned to know that Laurence had clearly committed some manner of violence upon his wife, but once the young lady left, Elizabeth's temper took over. She wished to see Mrs. Brown as expediently as was possible, and assessing the time required to prepare a carriage versus saddling a mare, ordered Parker to have Flora saddled and brought around as quickly as possible. Parker gaped at the request but still saw to it, and in the time required for this, Sarah hurriedly changed her mistress into a riding habit.

Alfred the groom was to be her attendant, and he held both his own horse and Flora as Elizabeth strode down the steps in front of the house. She slipped her hand beneath Flora's girth, found it correctly tight, and then put her foot on Alfred's proffered hands, to be given a leg up into the saddle. She situated herself as the groom swung himself up onto the back of one of Pemberley's hunters, nodded to him, and then set Flora off at a brisk trot towards Lambton. Once she felt the mare sufficiently warmed up, she urged her on to a canter and held that pace until they reached the village, where she reined in and found herself the recipient of many curious gazes, for although it was surely known by those in the village that she rode, she had previously always come thither by carriage.

At a little jog-trot they reached the Browns's house, Elizabeth jumping down without even time for Alfred's assistance as she strode up to the Browns's cottage door and knocked. Mrs. Brown opened the door immediately and cried, "Oh Mrs. Darcy, it's right terr'ble!"

Nothing that Elizabeth was told in the next quarter-hour was a surprise to her, for it was precisely as Abigail had said. Mrs. Brown's telling of it, however, was even more agitated, in her fears for her son's fate and in her explanation of what had prompted him to take such an action in the first place, which was the illness of her youngest child, Robbie. "'Eeee needed med'cine, from the 'poth'cary, an' I tol' Jemmy not'a take what weren't ours, but 'eee said in a way it were, since the new Mr. Sinclair wouldn't give o'er what wus collect'd in our name. I tried 'n' tried 'a talk 'im outta it, but Jemmy wouldn't listen, and now what of it? 'Eeee'll be hang'd, my poor baby."

"Mrs. Brown, I promise you that Mr. Darcy and I will do all we can to ensure it does not come to that, nor even transportation. I do wish you or Jemmy had come to us with your troubles before this, though – it would have been a great deal easier to aid you before it all came to this."

Mrs. Brown's eyes filled with tears, and she said, "I know, m'lady, and for that I'm right sorr'. Ye Darcys've been kinder to us'n anyone d'serves. We didn't want'a trouble ye."

"I wish you would have!" cried Elizabeth, but as soon as she did so she knew there was nothing to be gained from it. What had happened had happened, and what was important now was ensuring that Jemmy was restored to his family.

"So do I, m'lady, an' I only 'ope my poor baby don't pay with 'is life for it."

"I will do everything in my power to ensure he does not," promised Elizabeth. She handed Mrs. Brown more than sufficient money to purchase anything that might be needed from Mr. Oakes and to feed the family for the next few weeks, then took her leave.

Aware that her precipitate ride through town had turned heads, Elizabeth endeavoured to maintain a cooler head as she rode back to Pemberley, for it was critical to her to protect Abigail Sinclair. She was of hopes that she had made a favourable impression upon the village, but not long after she had crossed onto Pemberley lands, she sighted a horse and rider on the horizon, approaching at a rapid clip. It was not long before she resolved they were Darcy and Peregrine, the filly sweeping across the field at a hard blow, her ears pricked forward in pleasure at being allowed her head.

This pleasure changed to displeasure, of course, when she was pulled up snorting before Flora and proceeded to dance in mincing little steps as her rider said, "Elizabeth, whatever is the matter – I was told you had gone tearing off on horseback."

This description compared to the reality of her ride gave Elizabeth some seconds of amusement – rare on this day – before she said, "Yes, Flora and I paced a most blistering canter on the way to Lambton. Are we to be entered at Doncaster?"

Her wit seemed to bring him some relief as he gazed over horse and rider, appraising their condition "Still, my love, you rode to the village on horseback, which it not at all usual for you."

"I – yes – there is something I need to tell you of." Quickly, Elizabeth detailed for him all she knew of Jemmy Brown's arrest for poaching, which resulted in Darcy's becoming more and more agitated. This, in turn, resulted in the agitation of his mount, for such a creature was sensitive to the mood of her rider, and when he indicated his intent to ride to Berewick immediately to confront Laurence Sinclair, Elizabeth insisted he take Alfred with him, to mind the filly. This, of course, resulted in his protestations that he could not let his wife return to the stables unattended,

"I understand your concerns," said she, "but it is truly nothing for Flora and I to make our way back. However for you to approach the house of our enemy on such a creature – do not give me that look, Darcy, for if he was not before, that man is surely our enemy now – without someone else in your quarter I do not think wise. With his love for blood horses I am surprised Laurence Sinclair has not recalled you to the promise you made to his father, to sell him Peregrine or Gannett. Let us hope he was never made aware of it."

"Good God!" he cried. "I would never let that man have either."

"Then better you never let her be held by one of his grooms, or worse still walked back to his stables, for he has already withheld one thing not rightly his," replied Elizabeth. "Flora and I will be just fine, I promise you – I would gladly ride her across the county, and as you know what a reluctant horsewoman I am, so you must know how well you have chosen a mount for me."

"You are certain?" His gaze was strong, and she held it.

"I am."

Thus Alfred was directed to follow after his master, and Elizabeth and Flora continued on alone. True to her promise, they reached Pemberley's stables without any incidents other than the consternation of the stable staff that the mistress should be returning without the groom assigned her. This she explained to them as she was assisted in dismounting, then she patted Flora and began the walk back to the house.

She went to Darcy's study to await him, absently thinking that when she was done with her bedchamber and dressing-room, she ought to move on to redecorating her own study, the room beside this one. She was less inclined to broach changes to that space, however, more because she enjoyed spending time with her husband in this one. It was a working room, lined with bookshelves containing the estate's financial books, a great vast map hung on one wall showing its present boundaries, and Darcy's equally vast desk placed before it. If there was a room that was the heart of the estate, Elizabeth thought, it was very likely this, or perhaps it shared that status with Mr. Richardson's study. Elizabeth never went in that study, but she did retain her own little secretaire here, and when she was not using that liked to sit in one of the large chairs near the fireplace.

She was thus when Darcy finally returned, looking as unsettled as ever she had seen him. He seated himself in the chair beside hers, exhaled very slowly, and laid his head in his hand, taking a long time to collect himself before he finally said, "Jemmy Brown was taken to Derby already, to await the quarter sessions. With no gaol in Lambton – with no _need_ of a gaol in Lambton – Laurence Sinclair claims there was nothing else to be done with him. I recalled him to the collection, to the ethical quandary of his prosecuting a boy for poaching when he was in truth indebted to him. But that man has no notion of ethics, of what is _right_. He did hand over the collection, but only after I had threatened to take the debt to the law with the accounting Houlton and I have prepared. Good God, Elizabeth, how I wish I had done as you mentioned after his dinner and simply gave the Browns more than what I thought was owed to them. It would have prevented all of this."

"Oh Darcy, none of us could have known this would happen. And though I hate to say it, Jemmy does bear some responsibility here for taking matters into his own hands, rather than coming to us for assistance."

"True, but we should not expect a boy of his age to react in a mature manner to what befell his family."

"No, of course not. What should we do for him, until the quarter sessions?"

"I've sent Richardson to Derby, to see him. He has ample funds to ensure Jemmy is gaoled comfortably."

"Darcy – if – if the worst happens, will he hang?"

"No, I expect he will be transported. Not that such a punishment would make matters any easier for his family, but at least he would live. I do not intend it will come to that, though. I will fight this, Elizabeth. God help me, I will fight this with everything at my disposal."

"Thank you for that, my love. Can we even be sure that it was one of Laurence Sinclair's birds he took? Mrs. Brown indicated that was his intent, but after the incident with Bernard Kelly, I wonder if it was another case of Sinclair overstepping his bounds."

"I cannot be sure, but you may be certain that I will bring up that incident at quarter sessions. Laurence Sinclair has a right to prosecute any crime occurring within the county, of course, but I have rights as a landowner to bar his men from operating on my land. If any of his men attempt to set foot on my land again, I informed him they would be considered trespassers, and prosecuted thoroughly. He did not take this seriously, considering he is the nearest magistrate, but I reminded him that he is not the only magistrate in Derbyshire, and I have a goodly acquaintance with the others. They will back me, I think, against such a man."

"I pray they shall," she said. "And Darcy, God bless you for trying, for fighting." Elizabeth gazed at him, her heart swollen with love. Somehow, despite her many errors and misunderstandings, she had been so blessed as to have this man for her husband. How fortunate had she been, to have his love, his protection? Never once had she feared speaking up to him; never once had she seen him use either his physical dominance over her nor his legal position to bring about his preferences. She respected her husband and he respected her, and she thanked God in that moment that she was in the very opposite of poor Abigail's position.

Overcome still more by her thoughts, she rose to kiss him, to find herself pulled into his lap as they both sought comfort, love, those touches and caresses that could only come from two people who had been together for so long as they had, and who had been together in such a strength of love. They had weathered many a storm over the last few years, and they would weather this one, Elizabeth thought, with hopes for a future in which Jemmy would be returned to his family.


	24. Part 1, Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Georgiana had worried that after the novelty of living aboard a ship had worn off, Caroline would become bored with life upon her namesake and therefore more difficult to manage. After a month aboard the frigate, however, she remained just as enamoured with shipboard life, for which her mother was grateful. It had helped that the seamen continued to produce little treasures for her, and these had begun to become more elaborate: a cup and ball, several peg-tops, and even a complete carved game of ninepins – surely a group effort – had been among her treasures in the past fortnight. Marley, the Caroline's carpenter, had even made her a pretty new box in which to hold all of them. Marley had replaced Moll's husband, Taylor, who had been a mere acting carpenter during the Caroline's journey to China, and although everyone had long since ceased begrudging Marley of this – he being both amiable and competent – he clearly understood that it never hurt to undertake such tasks as would earn him further goodwill.

Of her newest toys, the cup and ball was best at keeping Caroline occupied, because she had never once managed to succeed in landing the cup in the ball with her present coordination, but every failure only made her more determined to succeed. Thus she was walking about in a little circle on the quarterdeck, making continual endeavours, and Georgiana was watching her with some amusement. She looked down the deck and caught Simmons, captain of the mizzentop, watching with equal amusement; they shared a brief glance, and Georgiana smiled slightly to him, thinking it possible he had been the maker of the toy.

Catherine and Captain Ramsey came over to stand with her, and Captain Ramsey said, "Have you got it yet, Little Miss?"

"No-o-o-o," said Caroline, without ceasing her efforts.

"I'm sure you will get it soon," said Catherine encouragingly, although it was not likely Catherine was correct, for in addition to the inherent challenge of the game for a two-year-old child, the breeze had been freshening for some time, and seemed to be growing stronger still.

Caroline made no response, merely continuing on with her next attempt.

"I only hope they make her a more difficult toy when she does finally master this," murmured Georgiana, and they all chuckled.

"Fine day," said Captain Ramsey. "We'll have the fastest passage I've ever seen, if it keeps up like this. Matthew won't like that ta'gallant studdingsail, though. Should have come in long before now."

"Shall you tell him?" asked Georgiana.

"Nay. I am a passenger, and if I aim to remain a passenger who is good friends with your husband, I must say nothing of it, and neither should you. They'll lose the sail, and likely the yard. The officer of the watch will be called to task for it, and hopefully he will learn."

The officer of the watch was of course Osborne, and Georgiana thought that if he had not learned by now, he was not likely to from this incident. Her initial impression of his competence had not changed since his early days aboard the ship, and it appeared they were due for another demonstration of his lack of seamanship. This was the first time she had seen him leave a sail on for too _long_ ; usually he shortened sail well before Matthew thought it necessary, and the Caroline would be in the midst of an even swifter passage, if not for this. It seemed Matthew's encouragements to trust in the ship's abilities as a swift sailer even at her present age had finally borne fruit, but with a man who lacked the necessary seamanship, this had resulted in an overcorrection. Georgiana considered surreptitiously ignoring Captain Ramsey's advice and going down to tell Matthew of what was happening, but it was one thing to intervene when a man was being abused, and quite another to tell Matthew of a problem with the sails that – at present – was not readily apparent to Georgiana. She had some idea of the names of the sails, but could not specifically identify the topgallant studdingsail.

It became identifiable not a quarter-hour later, however, when the bosun relayed the command to take in certain sails and one of them broke loose, waving like a pennant in the wind. After this, Lieutenant Osborne went to stand at the base of the mast and scream at the seamen aloft to get about it, although he did not command the bosun to have anyone started; Matthew had enforced that particular lesson successfully. The sail streamed out in the wind for some time and then came a rending crack as yard and sail both came loose, the seamen frantically producing pocket knives to cut the rigging so that both could go flapping overboard, momentarily catching the wind like a kite and then eventually splashing down into the ocean behind the Caroline. Osborne watched this – as they all did – and looked momentarily stricken before his face hardened and he said, "I'll have the names of everyone involved in taking in that sail."

Midshipman Ashton was on watch this time, and he was either young enough or well-placed enough as the son of a baron to protest: "But sir, the command – "

"Thank you, Mr. Ashton, later I will request an account of what caused the loss from the officers involved, but for now let us see to the repairs in the rigging," said Matthew. When he had come up on deck Georgiana could not say; Lord Stretford was with him, but she suspected they had not come up for a simple airing, for surely the shouting could have been heard from within the captain's cabins.

Matthew strode over to the bosun and spoke to him of the repairs needed for the rigging, then indicated that Travis should be sent for to take over as officer of the watch, and Lieutenant Osborne and Midshipman Ashton should come to the great cabin to meet with him.

Travis appeared, Matthew and his other officers went below, walking past Lord Stretford, who eyed them all with a placid but knowing countenance. He walked over to where Georgiana and the Ramseys were standing upon the quarterdeck and then looked to Caroline, who had continued in her attempts at the cup and ball through all of this, still with no success.

Caroline made no acknowledgement of his presence, nor did she appear to notice when Lord Stretford said, "She has her father's determination."

"That she does," replied Georgiana.

* * *

Excepting the evenings Captain Stanton and his wife were invited to dine in the wardroom, the Stantons and the Ramseys all dined in the great cabin together. Often some of the ship's officers and Mrs. Travis were included, but sometimes they remained a small, family party. These evenings were usually Georgiana's favourite, but on this evening her husband was clearly not attuned to company, and this was more evident with fewer people to help carry the conversation. Even Lord Stretford seemed contemplative, and so she was thankful that the Ramseys seemed to sense the moods of the others and endeavoured to introduce various topics and speak on them.

She gazed at Matthew, thinking about the incident with the sail. Georgiana had been right to worry about introducing a new lieutenant just before the Caroline sailed, had been right to worry that Osborne was following after Lieutenant Holmes and Lieutenant Coombs, those men who had caused Matthew so much grief and strife. Why was it, she wondered, that he could lead so many others, and yet seemed always destined to struggle with one of his subordinates every time he sailed. Much of what he struggled with was incompetence, she knew, yet he had no difficulties with midshipmen, who must of course join their first ship quite incompetent in their duties. Midshipmen were young, though, young and ready to be moulded into officers – and those who showed themselves to be lacking in promise could be left ashore on a ship's next cruise. The same did not apply to lieutenants, whose assignments could be influenced by Matthew, but not determined by him.

There being no separate drawing-room to retire to, the entire party rose from the table together to allow the captain's servants to clear it, then fold it up and move it to the side of the great cabin. The sofa and chairs were then moved to the centre, and they could all be seated again, Hawke coming around to the gentlemen with port and brandy. This was the point in the evening where someone would usually ask Georgiana if she would play for them – and on this night she was quite eager to escape into her music – but Captain Ramsey altered this by saying,

"May we have some music again tonight? Perhaps a duet? It has been ages since I have heard the two of you play together."

It had been ages since Matthew had played at all, with or without his wife. While he had generally improved since the Icarus – save the troubles with Lieutenant Osborne – he had not returned to his cello. Georgiana looked at him anxiously, hoping he would agree to play, but was not at all surprised when he said,

"I am too far out of practise to play, so I fear I must decline."

"In the wardroom of the Foudroyant I heard every possible scrape and screech you could make on that instrument, my friend, and surely you cannot be that bad. Practise before us – we are all family," said Captain Ramsey.

"Perhaps I am not that bad," said Matthew, "but I am not capable of keeping pace with such a proficient as my wife. I think we would be much better entertained with just her to play – if you would wish to, Georgiana?"

Georgiana nodded and rose to go to her pianoforte, not wishing to allow Captain Ramsey to press her husband further, although she thought he did it with good intentions. She was not of a mood to play most of her usual pieces, and kept to light, short songs, which was for the best, for after a quarter-hour the sound of William's crying could be heard, and shortly after this Mrs. McClare knocked on the cabin door and said he had need of his mother.

It was this, more than anything else, that improved her mood. Sitting in the sleeping-cabin with a child at her breast could not but remind her of that voyage back from China, of being a new mother – a new, exhausted mother, but one so cosy and content with the child she had finally been blessed with. She had two children, when once she had thought she would never have any. She had a husband, when once she had thought him gone. Perhaps it was wrong to wish for more, when she had been so blessed – more blessed than the Ramseys, who occasionally let slip some evidence of the pain their continued childlessness had wrought.

Still, when the adults had vacated the great cabin and the children, Mrs. Nichols, and Mrs. Taylor were installed there for the evening, when Matthew entered the sleeping-cabin and absently kissed his wife, Georgiana did ask for more.

"Why do you never play?" she asked softly, grasping his arm.

"I – I do not know that I have the heart for it, Georgiana. I began on the instrument because my uncle purchased it for me, and I kept at it because I wished for his praise. As I improved, and as I had a chance to hear music performed, I came to a love of it, but that was not the real reason why I continued to play."

"I don't understand," Georgiana whispered.

"Music is – it is civilisation. It is the greatest thing that civilised society has ever created, and in a time of war, it was my reminder that man is capable of better things than killing his fellow man because they each swear allegiance to a different country." He bit his lip. "But after I saw what I saw on the Icarus, I – I lost my faith in man's capacity for civilisation. I saw the worst humankind is capable of."

"Is that not all the more reason to return to music? To remind yourself of the best?"

He kissed her cheek. "That is what I have you for, dearest."

"I miss it, though – I miss playing together," she said tremulously. "I miss that connection we used to have."

He sighed. "If you wish for us to return to our duets, I will try. But I _do_ need to practise first – I meant what I said about playing with such a proficient as you."

"I was out of practise too, though. When I – when I thought I had lost you, I could not play, knowing that I would never hear you beside me again."

He kissed her again, this time on the lips, although it was soft, gentle, light. "Knowing that, dearest, I must endeavour to play again. Give me time, and I will try."

Georgiana nodded, and climbed up into her cot. The side had been let down so that it could be connected to Matthew's, but this mattered little beyond the reassurance of Georgiana's presence, for they slept chastely. Their duets were not the only connection Georgiana missed, but while she had found a way to broach the music, she felt it would be harder to broach their lack of marital intimacy.


	25. Part 1, Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

They were fortunate that the quarter sessions came not long after Jemmy Brown's arrest for poaching. While Mrs. Brown understandably grew more fretful in the preceding days, Elizabeth was glad to approach a resolution. No good would come of keeping Jemmy in gaol for weeks on end, unable to earn anything to aid his family and causing worry for all who knew of the situation and viewed it with sympathy rather than heartlessness.

Mrs. Brown and her children went to Derby in a carriage provided by the Darcys. It was an older model typically used to transport the family's servants, but Mrs. Brown still seemed overwhelmed by its quality, lifting her two younger children inside gingerly, and then thanking the Darcys profusely as she climbed inside herself. The Darcys were in a rather unusual formation for husband and wife: Mr. Darcy in the post-chaise with his valet, Mrs. Darcy riding alongside it on her mare. Elizabeth had found a little amusement in this juxtaposition, amusement which was sorely needed to see such a travelling party off. She had taken to riding Flora into the village more often, so as to draw less notice to that first time she had done so, and found she liked it better. The approach of the Darcy carriage always seemed to change the mood of the village – Elizabeth had often caught people stopping to bow or simply to stare. A lady on horseback, however, was just a little more like them and far less grand, even if she was wearing a very smart green riding habit and riding the prettiest thoroughbred mare anyone in the village had ever seen.

The weather was fine and the windows had been let down on the post-chaise, so when Mrs. Brown and her children seemed settled, Darcy beckoned Elizabeth over to his side of the chaise and held out his hand. Elizabeth drew Flora up as close as she could and offered her own hand. He clasped it, and murmured, "I intend to return as soon as the trial is over, but if perchance we are delayed, I will send word of the outcome."

"I pray it will be that he is not guilty," Elizabeth said. "Good luck to you, my love."

He pulled her hand closer and leaned down to kiss the top of her glove. "I will do all I can, and pray it will be enough." Then he released her hand and called out to Powell to set off.

Since Laurence Sinclair would surely be going to the quarter sessions as well, Elizabeth thought she would call on Abigail on her way home, knowing her friend would be more relaxed in his absence. She informed Alfred, the groom attending her, that they would go home by way of Berewick, and then turned Flora around to go back through the village. When she arrived at Berewick however, she found she had been too early, for there was a post-chaise in the drive and Laurence Sinclair could be seen striding towards it. He saw Elizabeth and came around to the other side of the chaise, saying, "Mrs. Darcy, it is good of you to call, but Mrs. Sinclair is unwell and will not be able to see you." His eyes rather obviously moved over the entirety of Elizabeth and Flora, from hat to hooves, and he added, "Where do you have your riding habits made, Mrs. Darcy? My wife could at least dress more modishly, if she insists on staying mounted on that old nag."

"They are done by my husband's tailor, Stultz," said Elizabeth. She did not inform him that unless a riding habit for Abigail was commissioned by one of the Darcys, he was likely to wait some months for it to be done. Elizabeth's patronising Stultz for the occasional pelisse and all of her riding habits had led to quite a surge in business for an already busy man, although he always executed her requests and those of her husband expediently, well aware of who it was that drove this new demand. Nor did she mention that she knew far more than she ought regarding Berewick's present finances, thanks to her efforts to help Abigail retrench in a way that would not be noticed by her husband. A riding habit made by Stultz was not something the Sinclairs could afford. Not that such a thing would stop Laurence Sinclair, Elizabeth thought bitterly.

"Ah, Stultz. I prefer Weston, but everyone knows his work is excellent."

"I have always been very pleased with it," said Elizabeth. "I am very sorry to hear Abigail is feeling poorly. Is there anything I can do to aid her? Some arrowroot, perhaps?"

For just a moment, he looked discomfited, but then his countenance returned to its usual boorish arrogance, and he said, "Just the usual female indisposition. Nothing to worry over."

"Oh, of course. Well, do not let me keep you from your travels, Mr. Sinclair. Perhaps Morley could have a note sent round to Pemberley, when Mrs. Sinclair is feeling up to company again?" Elizabeth glanced over at Berewick's butler, and he nodded.

"Yes, very well," said Laurence Sinclair. "Well, I must be off – quarter sessions, part of a magistrate's duties, you understand."

"Yes," replied Elizabeth sharply, "I understand very well."

Sinclair lept into his post-chaise, called out to his postillion to ride on, and drove off in a cloud of dust. Left in said dust, Elizabeth glanced over the façade of Berewick. It was older than Pemberley – more of an age with Longbourn, abeit larger – but she had always found it to be a charming old place when occupied by the prior generation. Now, however, she espied Abigail standing before one of the old windows, and started when she saw the great purple bruise surrounding the lady's eye. Elizabeth raised her hand weakly in acknowledgement and Abigail flitted back from the window. It had been made clear that Elizabeth was not to visit with Abigail while this evidence of her husband's abuse was still visible, but Elizabeth vowed they would speak of it, when next she was allowed to see her friend.

Disheartened and worried, she rode back to Pemberley's stables, was assisted down from the saddle by Marshall, and began the walk back to the house. There was a side entrance to Pemberley, one convenient to the working rooms of the estate on the ground storey – the entrance went right past Mr. Richardson's study – but also to the master's and mistress's apartments on the first storey, and Elizabeth had always presumed it to have been designed with access to the stables in mind, for this most equestrian of families. There was one thing slightly different in the view of the side of the house these days, and that was the curtains hanging in the windows of Elizbeth's apartments. They had been made and installed, giving Elizabeth ready inspiration for the rest of the décor. Jasper would have to remove them and reinstall them when he got to the more serious work on the room – removing the panelling would be quite an undertaking – but although he had known this, he had hung them cheerfully, even pronouncing them to be very nice. Jasper would be required to start on this next phase of work fairly soon, for Sarah had procured the samples of wallpaper and Elizabeth had made her decision: a series featuring scenes of Italy was to adorn the walls of both her dressing-room and bedchamber. It had been the most stimulating of the options Sarah had given her, and although Elizabeth had not seen the full series, she was promised both the famous landmarks she and George had looked through, and garden terraces and groves of orange trees. It had been the latter two that had most appealed to her, although the famous landmarks could not be ignored either. Since Elizabeth and her family had been deprived of their trip to the Mediterranean, it would instead adorn her walls, and further her plans for rooms that felt as though they had brought the outdoors inside.

Elizabeth felt a welcome swell of pleasure as she viewed the new curtains hanging from her windows. Except – she halted, and gazed at the windows with narrowed eyes. It appeared Jasper had missed the farthest window to the left in his installation of the new curtains. Yet a few moments' thought told her this was not possible, as she had been in the bedchamber multiple times and seen all of the windows adorned with the new curtains. It should not have been possible at all for there to be a window still featuring Lady Anne Darcy's old gilt fringed damask curtains, for the space beside Elizabeth's bedchamber was the east staircase, with its curtainless windows.

Which could only mean that the space immediately beside Elizabeth's bedchamber was _not_ the east staircase. Her stomach lurching in anticipation of the possibilities, Elizabeth increased her pace towards the house, strode inside with the barest acknowledgement for the footman who opened the door for her, and raced up the east staircase – which had nary a curtain in sight. Indulging in her suspicion, Elizabeth paced out the length of the hallway leading to her door, then went inside the bedchamber and paced out the distance from the door to the wall. With giddy excitement, she found the distances did not match.

Before they had taken up residence at Pemberley, Darcy had told her of the one secret room in the house he knew of, off of the library, and had teazed her that perhaps there were others she might encounter. She did not think he knew of this one – surely such a room must be the cause of what she had observed – for even if his original intent had been to let her discover it, she did not think he would have let her go this long with nary a hint as to what lurked beside her own bedchamber.

Now that Elizabeth had identified that there was a secret room, she was eager to find the entrance. Surely it must be hidden within the wood paneling along the wall – now that she looked at it considering that a door could be inside, she could see any number of places where one might have been concealed. Starting nearest the window, she began looking along the wall for some latch or some mark on the wood that might indicate a means of entry, but could not find anything promising. She went around the bed and searched there as well, but her efforts were similarly unfruitful. Scowling, she looked at the bed and determined the mechanism for entry must be somewhere behind it, and if this was the case, she would need to wait for its removal. Impatience welled within her at the thought. She leaned against the wall beside the bed to see if there was anything visibly suspicious behind the tall old four-poster, and promptly tumbled into the space she had been attempting to gain access to. She landed on the floor within, stirring up a great cloud of dust. Dust was not her immediate concern, however.

Her immediate concern was that if the door was so simple that it could be opened by pushing on it, then the room could only be fully closed from the inside, and if it had been closed for all these years, there must still be some incumbent within. Desperately, she looked about her for the skeleton she – fueled by a penchant for gothic novels in her youth – not only wholly expected to find, but presumed would be wearing a veil. There was no skeleton to be seen, however.

Laughing at herself, she sat up on the floor and began examining the door to figure out how it had managed to get closed so thoroughly from the outside. Eventually, she found something at the very bottom – a nail through a tattered piece of ribbon. Elizabeth pulled at the ribbon and it ripped free from the nail, and as she ran it between her thumb and forefingers, she found it entirely dry-rotted. She could only presume that the ribbon had once been much longer, enabling someone in the bedchamber to pull the door closed. A little piece of ribbon up against the wall would have been wholly innocuous in a lady's bedroom – so innocuous, indeed, that Elizabeth presumed that after the dry rot had set in, some maid had pulled at it and disposed of the piece that had come away in her hand.

Now that she had solved this mystery, she looked about her to see what it was precisely she had gained access to. Her view of this was partially obscured, for there was still a heavy cloud of dust in the air, lit by the sunlight from the window so that it seemed as though the room was enveloped in a strange, glittering fog. Elizabeth clambered over some piece of furniture and made to open the window so as to freshen the air, and although surprisingly it yielded with no more effort than the others in her bedchamber, her doing so made a sudden gust of wind hit the room and stir up even more dust.

Coughing, Elizabeth was forced to retreat to the bedchamber and find her handkerchief, so she could hold it up against her mouth and nose. Then she pushed the door open again – how delightfully simple yet well-concealed it was, and perhaps this was why she had never noticed it within the panelling! – and had her first proper look at the room.

What she saw amazed her. The item of furniture before the window was a chaise that had once been thickly cushioned, but the cushion was a little misshapen from use and the simple silk fabric heavily faded. Over the back of the chaise was haphazardly draped a blanket, and on the windowsill beside it laid a book. Elizabeth stepped closer, saw that it was the fourth volume of _Sir Charles Grandison,_ and found herself strangely concerned that its reader had embarked on it without finishing it, for there was something about the room that made it feel as though it had been stopped at a moment in time, so she did not think the leaving off of _Sir Charles Grandison_ had been voluntary – although with a work of such length, this could not be entirely ruled out.

She looked about the rest of the room. It was long and narrow, and the darker back half seemed to be used only for storage. Nearer to Elizabeth was a pretty little secretaire and a chair. The curtains on the window were the only thing of Lady Anne's usual ostentation, for the walls were plain white, although as Elizabeth drew closer to them, she found them hung with pictures of the greatest fascination.

They were all watercolours, and the first she saw was of a boy and a far younger girl, standing hand-in-hand before a lake. Their backs were to the painter, but their faces were turned just enough towards each other for an indication of sibling affection to be visible. The skill of the painter was evident and felt vaguely familiar to Elizabeth, but what struck her most was the tone of it, as though she could not only see but hear the stream. She stepped closer to the painting, and saw that it was signed only with the initials "E. F.," but this was sufficient for her to know who the painter had been. This had been a gift from Lady Ellen to her sister by marriage, and this meant the children in the painting could only be Darcy and Georgiana. Upon realizing this, Elizabeth examined it with even more fondness. There were others, one of Pemberley and several scenes of Stradbroke Castle, a view of Lambton common, and one of four boys playing together, a taller one that must have been young Andrew Fitzwilliam, the other three nearer in height: Edward, Darcy, and George Wickham, Elizabeth presumed. All of the paintings, save perhaps the latter, which showed a man her husband would rather forget, ought to be displayed in more prominent places within the house, rather than being hidden away here, and it was only her curiosity to learn what else was within the room that prevented Elizabeth from immediately removing them from the walls.

She moved towards the back of the room to the storage space, comprised of shelves filled with various items: a book carrier that held the other volumes of _Sir Charles Grandison_ ; a large box of such quality as indicated its maker had been a master of the art of quilling, and within two patch boxes, a filigree vase similar to those of George Darcy's collection, and an exquisite painted fan showing what must have been some scene from antiquity; valises holding neatly folded children's' clothing, including more christening gowns than Elizabeth would have expected; a writing slope that had clearly borne much travelling; and finally a large set of the sort of inexpensive marbled journals that can be bought at any bookshop or circulating library. They were less worn than Samuel Richardson's volumes had shown themselves to be on closer inspection, but they had clearly been filled. Hesitantly, Elizabeth drew one out and opened to the first page to read:

" _December 2, 1778_

" _Mama and Cathy are arguing again over my presentation at Court. Cathy continues to fight it because she is still unwed, but mama says she has had three seasons to make a match and has not done so. Mama claims that with my more biddable disposition I will be easier to marry off, and therefore she would rather have me out now, for it will be sooner for her to have only one daughter to dispose of. These are not quite the words mama used, but her sentiment was clear enough. I know I am quieter than Cathy, but I do not know that this means I should be married off any sooner than her. In truth I do not know how either of us should be married off with naught but 10,000 pounds for a dowry. Would that Andrew had been here over the past two years! He cannot always influence papa, particularly to curb his gambling, but perhaps at least he could have stopped papa from making such awful investments to try to reduce his losses."_

"Oh dear," Elizabeth murmured. A quick glance through the remainder of the pages proved her initial suspicion to be correct, that this was Lady Anne Darcy's journal, although more correctly she had still been Lady Anne Fitzwilliam at the time of writing this entry. Elizabeth faced a choice, then, and a little guiltily made the decision within moments: Lady Anne's privacy could not hold strong against such an overwhelming tide of curiosity. Elizabeth read on.

" _10,000 pounds, for the daughter of an earl! I do not blame mama for it, for she has done her best to keep papa out of the gaming hells, but still, it is one thing I completely agree with my sister on, that we have been placed in a most unfair position, to have portions that do not match our position. I am more practical about things than Cathy, tho. I am sure Sir Lewis de Bourgh would offer for her, were she merely to give him the slightest hint that he would meet with success, but she swears she will not settle for a knight and nothing less than a viscount will do. I do not agree with her. I would be perfectly happy to be courted by a man below my station, so long as he has fortune enough to maintain us and has affections towards me. I look at poor mama, who had a marriage arranged with a man of her station, only to be required to suffer papa's gambling all these years. I do not know that I should seek to marry for love, for I am not sure I should ever be so fortunate as to find a man I could love, but I should like to find a reasonable man, a responsible man, and above all a kind man, and I do not know that there is a man within our sphere who possesses these qualities and would be willing to take a wife with only 10,000 pounds._

" _December 7, 1778_

" _Andrew is coming home! We just received a letter from him that he and Mr. Darcy will take their passage to Dover from Naples on the next ship bound thither. They have grown concerned that with the hostilities between France and our country, passage should grow ever more dangerous and so they will travel on a Neapolitan merchant ship. Their letter was carried by an English frigate which must have got through, and by the timing Andrew gives they should be here at Stradbroke before Christmas._

" _O, how I long to see Andrew again! I do not begrudge him his Grand Tour, and I am glad his schoolfellow thought the prestige of Andrew's place an equal trade for this Mr. George Darcy's more ample funds, but still, I think Andrew is the only person in our family who truly understands me and I have missed him desperately. Andrew's friend is to stay with us for a few days before travelling on to his family in Derbyshire. He sounds very amiable from Andrew's letters and so I think it will be nice to have him here. I know that I am quite weary of being here with just papa, mama, and Cathy, and I expect a good friend of Andrew's to be better company than the three of them, although that is unfair to poor mama, who I think might have been different, had she married a different man._

" _December 16, 1778_

" _They are here! I shall write more later, but I am so very happy to see Andrew again. I cannot say I had particular expectations of Mr. Darcy, but even so, he has exceeded them all. I do not think I have ever met a more handsome or more amiable man. I was shocked by both him and Andrew when they alighted the post-chaise – both of them were deeply tanned. I suppose it should be expected for two young men travelling in such a climate but I had not thought to expect it. So this was what I noticed first, but then I had a better look at Mr. Darcy's countenance and was quite overwhelmed. He wears his own hair, and it was unpowdered for travelling. His eyes are intelligent and his mouth – there is something pleasing about his mouth when he speaks._

" _Andrew had collected very little, owing to our situation here, but Mr. Darcy had a whole trunkful of items – and, we were given to understand, many more pieces that had been shipped directly to his family home at Pemberley – and he showed us so many interesting pieces when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner. I think I could have watched him talk all night – and listened, for he has a melodic, resonant voice._

" _December 18, 1778_

" _I do not know what is happening to me. Whenever I am in company with Mr. Darcy, I feel this strange dizziness and a churning in my stomach. It is not just that he is handsome, although he is, exceedingly so. He is so kind, and solicitous, and intelligent. I find it difficult to converse with strangers, but when I speak with him I never feel uncomfortable, as tho I have nothing to say. Even with the physical affect his presence has on me, I can still converse with him. Much of this is to his credit – he asks questions at just the right time to keep the conversation going. He seems to be one of those people who is exceedingly skilled in conversation. I admire it – O, I admire so much about him!_

" _Today he expressed an interest in seeing the old castle, and Andrew said he would take him on a tour and invited Cathy and I to go with them. Cathy says he is a commoner and surely this is why she immediately said she had no interest in going through the droughty old castle, but I think I would have gone anywhere to spend more time in Mr. Darcy's company, so I went with them. I think we were there for half the day and yet it felt like no time at all. Andrew and Mr. Darcy told me many tales of their travels but Mr. Darcy also asked me many questions about myself and what it was like to live at Stradbroke. I am given to understand that Pemberley, his family estate in Derbyshire, features a much newer house although the family have been in England since William the Conqueror – the former house has gone to ruin, he said. He quite enjoyed the castle and all its dusty corners because it is novel to him. He says he enjoys dining in the great hall for the same reason. I wish I could find his enthusiasm contagious in this. I would much rather live in a house where Robert Adam had recently designed the state rooms over old Stradbroke with its sad brick façade and ancient old furniture. I am always ashamed when we have people to visit, although at least that no longer happens with any frequency, since we have retrenched so much._

" _We also talked about my accomplishments and again he was very complimentary of my playing the harpsichord. He must think me terribly old-fashioned, although he has been kind about it. How I wish mama and papa would let me get a pianoforte instead, but they see it as an unnecessary expense. It makes me so angry at papa that he can lose five times the cost of a new pianoforte in one night at Almack's Club, and thus it is considered something I cannot have. I am sure all the other debutantes will have changed to that instrument and I only hope I will not be a laughingstock. Sometimes I wish for nothing more than to get away from Stradbroke, from debt and retrenchment and Cathy and papa._

" _I will not admit this anywhere but here, but over the past few days I have been wondering if it could be Mr. Darcy to rescue me. It is terribly forward of me! Yet everything about his situation save his lack of a title is so very eligible, and I would gladly give that up to be joined to such a man. I never believed in love at first sight but now I do wonder if it is indeed real. Or is this just an infatuation that will pass? I cannot tell at this time – I feel the desire to be in his company as much as I possibly can, and I have never felt that way about anyone before. I think his appearance of goodness must match what is inside his head and heart – Andrew would not have travelled with him for two years if it did not. And of course beyond my own feelings I am being very premature in presuming anything about his. He often initiates conversation with me, but he seems the sort of man who endeavours to make every member of his party comfortable in conversation, and perhaps he senses that I am least comfortable, even among my own family. And I know not whether he is even allowed to consider his own heart. It may be that there are other plans for him – plans involving a more well-dowered bride. All I know is that when he is gone I will miss him terribly, and I am glad he has already promised to see us often in town during the season. His father is a member in the Commons and the whole family will be coming to town. Given his friendship with Andrew I have hopes of seeing him often._

" _December 21, 1778_

" _He is gone. The wait now until the season seems unbearable, but at least we had a wonderful evening last night. I played Scarlatti and he offered to turn the pages for me. I am glad I know it so well or I think the distraction of his presence would have caused me to make a great many blunders. He was so very complimentary again when I finished and then Cathy tried to ruin everything by giving her old line about how if she would have learned she would have been a true proficient – meaning, of course, more proficient than her sister. It upset me, as it always does, thinking of how I applied myself to practise and she never did, and my family just ignored her, as they always do. But Mr. Darcy expressed his sympathy over whatever physical condition had prevented her from learning. His tone was innocent and Cathy spluttered that there was nothing physically wrong with her, and how dare he presume there was. And he said, O! I shall never forget it – 'my apologies, Lady Catherine, I made an assumption on why you do not play given your sister's skill. I should not have presumed the cause.' And Cathy turned bright red in the face, but there was nothing she could say, and then he looked down at me for just a moment, but in that moment I could see that he knew, that he understood my situation. It was then that I knew I loved him, and I almost fainted when he offered his hand to assist me in rising from the stool. So it is decided – I love George Darcy, and the wait until I see him again will be most painful to endure."_

Elizabeth smiled wryly. "I think this infatuation of yours shall come out well," she murmured, in amusement. There was much to be amused about in what Lady Anne wrote – such strong romantic feelings in such a young lady for the man she had ultimately married, and every reference to _Cathy_ brought Elizabeth near giggles, particularly when Mr. Darcy had caught her out in not learning the harpsichord. Yet there was more hardship than Elizabeth had expected – she had understood that Stradbroke had been in some debt in the previous generation, but not the impact on its daughters. It made sense, when she thought on it, that neither Anne nor _Cathy_ had married the heir to a noble title, as might have been expected of them. What touched Elizabeth's heart, though, was Lady Anne's seeming discomfiture in the world, the sisterly and even motherly affection she lacked, her desire to escape her childhood home. Elizabeth had been standing as she read the passages, and she drifted toward the chaise and sat down to read more.

" _December 25, 1778_

" _Christmas was nicer than I expected. Mama had already told me not to expect many gifts with all it will cost to dress me for the season, but Andrew had bought me some pretty little things during his travels: a filigree glass vase and a very pretty patch box, and a fan so exquisite I think I will be afraid to use it._

" _It has been his presence which made this year's Christmas far more bearable than the last, and yet I still spent more time than I ought thinking about his friend, whether he had a safe journey back to Pemberley and wondering how the Darcys spent their day."_

" _December 26, 1778_

" _O, what an awful day! The outcome of it was for the best but I have found it all terribly distressing. It all began at breakfast, when papa told Andrew he shouldn't have bought things for us during his travels – and really he should have retrenched with the rest of us and returned much earlier. Andrew said he'd never spent more than his meagre allowance and we have Mr. Darcy to thank for that, for his friend is generous and has the means to be generous because his own father has been more responsible with his money. I know I have long thought this, but still, for Andrew to say it out loud was a shock. Papa was certainly shocked. He turned very red in the face and told Andrew not to speak thus to his father, but Andrew continued. He asked where the Rubens had gone – for anyone could see the big empty space in the Great Hall. Papa spluttered that Andrew would be sent to his room if he kept on. Andrew said he would go there but really those who should be sent to their rooms were those who could not act as responsible men should. They were shouting – they have never spoken to each other thus and I know it must have been difficult for quiet Andrew to stand up to papa in such a manner. It made me feel very distraught and anxious and Andrew said I was unwell and he would take me up._

"' _It needed to be said, Anne,' was all he said to me, except to say he'd have them send up some tea, to soothe my nerves. I spent the rest of the day before dinner in my room and developed quite a head-ache. I almost asked to take a tray there, but I was hoping Andrew and papa would reconcile during dinner and I wanted to know we were all at peace again. But we were not. Andrew bade the servants to leave and they commenced shouting at each other again. I excused myself as my head-ache was growing ever worse, but Andrew asked me to wait, and he told papa that if he was not ashamed about Andrew's birthright and the Earldom, he ought to be ashamed of what he had done to his daughters, that I was the sweetest, gentlest creature in the world and could have made a brilliant match with an appropriate dowry for my station. They argued still more until Andrew finally proposed what I suppose he had been working towards all this time – that when we went to town he would see to tying up what remained of our dowries in trust so that even if papa contracted further debts, they would be protected._

" _O, dear Andrew! To prompt such a confrontation on my behalf! Papa did agree to it, although begrudgingly. He claimed he would never gamble again but none of the rest of us believed him and he must have seen it on our countenances. I left after that and I believe everyone else retired not soon after, for Andrew came to my room and asked if I still had the head-ache and I said I did so he went to get me some laudanum. The new apothecary at Stradbroke village, Mr. Evans, prepares laudanum as a tincture in brandy, and I find it very strong but I did drink it and felt less distressed. I thanked Andrew for what he had done for us and he said quietly that he hadn't done it for Cathy. He told me he knew it would not be easy to make a match in my first season, to throw myself into so many events that were bound to make me anxious, but I needed to do so. Even if he tied up the money, our family's standing has fallen and could fall still further. I could not help but think that I had already met the man I wanted to marry and I wanted to ask Andrew if Mr. Darcy had ever said anything about me, but I find this is the one thing I cannot speak to Andrew about. I did finally ask him if he thought it would be a problem if I found someone of the gentry, so long as he was from a good family and had sufficient income. He said that was more aligned with my dowry, and if mama or papa had a problem with it, he'd help fight my corner. I think maybe by the look on his countenance that he knew I was thinking of a particular man from the gentry."_

There were nearly two months' worth of entries in fretful anticipation of the coming season, interspersed with a happier excitement to see Mr. Darcy again. Then, finally, Lady Anne wrote of trunks being packed, of a set date for their departure, and then:

" _February 24, 1779_

" _Grandmother looks much as she always has. Thank goodness for her jointure and her life interest in Massingham House, for without them I do not know that we could afford a London season at all. She promised she would see to a new court dress and a few other dresses for me. Cathy complained that she ought to have new dresses, too, but grandmother is one of the few people who won't suffer Cathy's dramatics, and she told her she'd had plenty of new dresses her first and second seasons and it was my turn and if Cathy didn't like it she could go back to Stradbroke. Cathy got so angry – we could all see it – but she knows grandmother means what she says and if she complained grandmother would have ordered Andrew to take her back to Norfolk._

" _March 1, 1779_

" _Grandmother took me in for another fitting for my court dress, and to order my other dresses. Mama told me I shouldn't get a gown with a polonaise back as it was a waste of fabric, but I really wanted one, and grandmother said if that was what I wanted and I would feel more confident in it, then that's what I should get, and since she was paying mama couldn't complain. So one of my dresses is to have a polonaise back in a very pretty silk. Indeed all of them are of pretty silk – grandmother knows the best warehouses for getting fine silk at a reasonable price._

" _When we were in the carriage back to her house, tho, she made me sad. She said I was such a pretty, sweet, and complying girl that had I the 30,000 pounds I was supposed to, I could have had any man I chose that season. She said she wished she could do more for us, but there would be no more jointure after she died, and she thought the best thing she could do was spend what she has now to give us a good season, and that I ought to choose the man I liked best, rather than the one who was the best match, for she had chosen the best match for mama and condemned her to such a life. If nothing else, she wished she and the duke had ensured all of the Brandon property was entailed, so at least the estate would pass intact, for there was no certainty of that at present for poor Andrew. It made me worry for him – he is meeting with solicitors to tie up Cathy's and my portions in trust, but there is no certainty for him. It is very possible he will be a penniless earl, or still worse, one who inherits insurmountable debts. When I think of his situation I am angriest at papa, for selfishly ruining what should have been the work of generations, passed down to his son. I know our family has made political missteps in the past that have set us back, but at least those were an attempt to gain power. There was never any power to be gained at the Pharo table."_

" _March 6, 1779_

" _My court dress arrived yesterday and after I tried it on and grandmother was sure it fit well, she sent notes around to some of her friends to call on us and see me in it. I saw little purpose in it, but she says their approval will help me, even if none of them have sons or grandsons of marriageable age. If we are lucky, she said, I would be written up in the papers even before my Drawing-Room._

" _Grandmother insisted I wear slightly larger panniers than are truly fashionable these days for court, because she says my figure is so slight we don't want anyone thinking I cannot bear children. Even so, when I came down to see her friends, they all agreed I was a pretty little thing and it was a very fine dress, that pale pink silk was just the thing for a young creature like me. One of them said I wouldn't last long on the marriage mart and another complimented my manners when I poured the tea. I could tell it was making Cathy very angry to have such attentions on me, but she did not say anything._

" _March 9, 1779_

" _This has been a very nice day. Mama arrived and said papa had promised her yet again that he will stay at Stradbroke and live quietly. We are to say he is unwell and mama will go back to nursing him after my presentation at Court. My polonaise dress also arrived and I tried it on and it looked so pretty! It is a yellow silk with flowers embroidered on and grandmother said I looked lovely in it. Mama didn't say anything about the dress at all and Cathy said it made me look like a shepherdess but I think she was just jealous._

" _And Lady Ettington sent round her diamonds with a note that said she was very impressed with my deportment at my dress viewing and thought they might go very well with my Court dress if I would like to consider wearing them at my presentation. I certainly will wear them! They're so beautiful and grandmother says it will be good to be seen in them as Lady Ettington is a great favourite at Court and would not loan her diamonds out to just any deb. I have been worried about jewellery. Most of grandmother's went to her nephew after grandfather's death and they have distanced themselves from us since papa's troubles became known to them – I think they fear being asked to rescue us. But grandmother does have some pieces of her own that she says I may wear and we have not yet parted with the more famous of the Fitzwilliam pieces, so I hope I shall have jewellery enough for a lady of my station._

" _Mama had not seen the write-up on my Court dress in the gossip pages while she had been travelling, so grandmother took out the paper and read it to her. I think I can remember all of it so I shall copy it out here so I can recollect it later: 'Lady A. F., youngest daughter of the E. of B., displayed her Court dress yesterday to select company including the M. of E., V. of H., and C. of J., at the home of the Dow. D. of M. Reports are that both girl and dress are very pretty and she will make her curtsey soon.'_

" _March 10, 1779_

" _My presentation is tomorrow. I was feeling nervous but grandmother made me feel better by telling me I didn't have to speak much – she or mama could speak for me if I was feeling tongue-tied. And she had me practise my curtsey again and again until I was feeling more confident about making it the right depth for the Queen, for it is her Drawing-Room we are to attend. It will only be grandmother, mama and Andrew to attend tomorrow – grandmother said Cathy was not necessary and would not go. I think she knows that Cathy would try to claim the Queen's attention if she attended with us and tomorrow is to be about my introduction to society._

" _I am less nervous, but I will still be very happy when it is over."_

" _March 11, 1779_

" _Well, my presentation is done and it was as if I was never there. I suppose that was better than making some blunder that would embarrass me in front of the Queen and her courtiers but I might as well have not been there at all, so far as everyone was concerned._

" _Things began as I had expected, based on what grandmother had told me. We awaited our turn and then grandmother and then mama were announced, and finally me. I felt very pretty in my dress and Lady Ettington's diamonds and I even overheard someone say that I was indeed very pretty as we went in. I made my first curtsey and we approached Queen Charlotte, then I made my second. She spoke to grandmother for a little while and only asked me one question, whether I was anticipating my first season. I said that I was but my voice wavered, I was so nervous to speak to her. I think she understood, tho, because she said she hoped she would see me at her Birthday Ball. Grandmother said we would certainly be there and then she indicated we should back away and make our final curtsey. She put her hand on my shoulder when we were back in the antechamber and said I had done well._

" _Then there was this stirring in the antechamber and the most exquisite young lady I have ever seen came in alongside an older gentleman. She was so elegant and I am sure her dress cost three times what mine did, for it was a beautiful blue silk with gold lace and gold beading and she was wearing sapphires the colour of the dress set amongst diamonds. Her carriage was so confident and elegant, although I suppose anyone should feel confident in such a dress and such jewels. Everyone stopped to watch her as she glided across the antechamber, our party included. Grandmother murmured that they were not familiar to her, and as she knows almost everyone in town that made the young lady even more mysterious._

" _Then they were announced as the Marquess of Lynton and Lady Ellen Montfort and grandmother nodded her head and said of course – Lord Lynton had aged so much since the death of his wife she hardly recognised him. He had been in Cornwall, in mourning, for some years. He must have decided this was the year to come out of mourning and bring his only daughter out into society. There was something dejected in her tone as she spoke and I understood what she meant: no one else could shine beside such an ornament, still less Lady Anne Fitzwilliam with only 10,000 pounds._

" _It got worse, tho. Grandmother spoke with some of her acquaintances before we left and shared what she had learned during dinner at her house. It was supposed to be a celebratory dinner but we felt much less celebratory than we should have. She shared that as Lord Lynton had no sons and did not favour the cousin who was to inherit the Marquessate, he had decided to leave all of his fortune that was not entailed to his daughter. I shall never forget her tone as she said, 'Lady Ellen Montfort is said to be worth 200,000 pounds.' We all sat there in shock for some moments until Cathy sniffed and said, 'If they're from Cornwall, it's probably tin money, or copper.' Andrew said he wouldn't complain if someone gave him 200,000 pounds of tin money. Mama said he ought to pursue her and Andrew said he wouldn't play a game he had no chance of winning. Mama said he had seemed as enthralled by Lady Ellen as anyone and 200,000 pounds would solve all of our problems and Andrew said not to press him as he had no interest in seeing papa gamble away a beautiful young woman's fortune – nor, it was likely, did the lady herself – and he did not intend to spend his time in futile pursuits. After that, we dined quietly. I do not think any of us was very happy."_

Had she been reading a novel, Elizabeth would have said that Lady Anne's primary adversary had just made her appearance, for Lady Catherine, as irritating as she had been even then, Elizabeth could not consider to be such a character. Yet as Lady Ellen was a beloved aunt-in-law, and had ended up marrying Anne's brother, Elizabeth felt still greater curiosity as to how such events had come about. She was just reading the date of the next entry – March 12 – when a remote thumping could be heard, and then,

"Ma'am, are ye in here? Master Charles has need of ye." It was Martha – Browning, now, Elizabeth reminded herself. Hastily and with a goodly measure of guilt, she set the journal down and rushed back into her bedchamber, attempting to close the door behind her as best she could without benefit of a ribbon. She ran to the bedroom door and opened it, saying, "I'm so sorry, Browning. I was distracted – quite lost in what I was reading – so very interesting – I shall take him in here."

Browning nodded and handed Charles – already reaching out for his mother's breasts – over to her. "D'ye want dinner, ma'am? It's – well, it's past time, and everybody was wonderin'."

"I'll have a tray here in half-an-hour, if I may," said Elizabeth guiltily. The Darcys had agreed that Miss Fischer should be invited to dine with them a few times each week, and she had intended to invite the governess to dinner that evening. It was far too late for that, now, so instead they would both dine alone.

"Of course, ma'am. I'll let 'em know."

Elizabeth endeavoured to keep Browning talking as the undernurse helped with her dress and stays, so the young woman would not notice the opened panel within the room. After Browning had left and Charles had drank his fill, Elizabeth laid him down on the carpet and ran into her dressing room to find a small, thin ribbon, managing finally after a couple of attempts to hook it around the nail and tie it tight, so that the panel could be shut thoroughly. Eventually at least some of the staff would need to be told of the existence of the room, but for now it was a secret still too new to be shared beyond those two Elizabeth was certain knew of it: the prior and current mistresses of Pemberley.

Charles was returned to the nursery and the tray deposited within Elizabeth's bedchamber by Parker himself, whom Elizabeth suspected as having been nominated by the senior staff to check on what had been admittedly strange behaviour by her that evening, for she hardly ever spent any time in this room. Once Parker had left, though, Elizabeth's mind quickly ranged back to 1779, and before she so much as touched a thing from the tray, she had gone back into the secret room to retrieve the journal she had been reading.

" _March 12, 1779_

" _O, but today was a much happier day! In the morning, what should be delivered but a square Broadwood pianoforte! Grandmother was not willing to remove her harpsichord (it is a very beautiful instrument) but she said she could surely make a little room in her drawing-room for this. It is on lease from Broadwood's so if I find I do not like it there will be little harm in it. I overheard mama telling her she indulged me too much but grandmother said I needed confidence and she would do everything to aid me in that within her capacity. I started practicing on my new instrument right away. It is strange to get a feel of, because depending on how hard you press the keys, the sound is different. I think I was getting better after I played for a while, tho._

" _Grandmother also ordered some new music for me, and I was working my way through Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 8 in A Minor when I heard voices in the drawing-room. I turned around and saw it was Andrew and Mr. Darcy! He looked even handsomer than I had remembered and when he apologised for interrupting me, he did it in such a graceful manner. I said I did not mind and I was very glad to see him again. He came over to take my hand and lead me from the bench, and yet again the feel of his hand and his gaze upon mine made me feel a little dizzy._

" _Grandmother and mama came in and Andrew introduced Mr. Darcy to grandmother. I was worried she wouldn't approve of him because of his rank, but he was very nicely dressed in a blue wool coat and cream-coloured breeches and I knew she liked him when she rang for tea and cakes because grandmother will not serve refreshments to anyone she does not think worthy of her time._

" _His family took up the lease on a house in Curzon Street a few years ago and they will be staying there. It is a very convenient distance to the park and he said he hoped he would see us there frequently, and at the Pantheon and Almack's Assembly Rooms and the pleasure gardens. Andrew said that he would – although grandmother says she is too old to be attending such events every night, Andrew has promised to squire us to whatever we wish to attend._

" _March 16, 1779_

" _My first ball was all I would have hoped for. All I really wanted was to dance with Mr. Darcy, and that I did. But must not get too far ahead of myself for there is more I want to recall about the night. I was amazed by the spaces of the Pantheon, of the great high ceilings and detail in the plasterwork, so much so that when Cathy told me to stop gawping before I embarrassed all of us, I obeyed, for I thought she was right for once. It was very crowded, and I was worried at first that without grandmother we wouldn't know a very wide acquaintance, but I soon learned that Andrew was actually the best sort of escort for such an evening, for although he is quiet, he still managed to amass quite an acquaintance at university, and his old schoolfellows are of just the right age to wish to dance with his sisters. He saw Mr. Darcy even before I did and took us over to greet him, and when we arrived it seemed Mr. Darcy was standing with someone else known to Andrew, who was introduced as Lord Hildenborough (Andrew told us later he is heir to the title of Viscount Tonbridge). Lord Hildenborough asked if we had met her yet and he didn't have to say who he meant – we all knew, even before he glanced over at where Lady Ellen Montfort stood with an older woman and what appeared a cadre of admirers._

" _I was wearing my new polonaise dress and had been feeling proud of it but I was shocked to see she wore a simple robe a l'anglaise with the barest of hoops. The fabric was striped, and this served to accentuate both her figure and her bearing. It made me feel much less enamoured of my own dress, and I hated her in that moment for it, even as I knew that was unfair._

" _Lord Hildenborough led us over to her and waited until she nodded to him that he should introduce us. She acknowledged the introduction so neatly that I could not but wish I could ever be half so elegant as her. Her every movement is like the water of a stream, flowing exactly where it should. I could tell Cathy was looking at her trying to find something to criticise, but even Cathy could not find anything with such a lady and thank goodness she didn't say anything other than she was pleased to make Lady Ellen's acquaintance. Then the gentlemen all proceeded to ask the ladies for dances. I was jealous to find Lady Ellen was already filling her sixth, seventh, and eighth dances – I was promised only for the first set to Andrew – but then Mr. Darcy asked me for the second and I didn't much care who else danced with who after that except to notice poor Andrew asked Lady Ellen for a dance because it seemed to be expected of him. I was glad at least that mama and grandmother were not there so he would feel no pressure to pay court to her for her fortune._

" _I was so nervous when my dance with Mr. Darcy came around, but once we started and began to speak I felt much more comfortable. I do not know what it is about him, but he makes me feel as tho everyone else does not matter – society does not matter, all those people in the Pantheon watching us did not matter, almost as tho they did not exist. We spoke of how I was getting on with my new pianoforte and how his journey down from Derbyshire had been and so many other things. He was so solicitous after the dance had ended, taking me to the refreshments table and giving me a lemonade when I said it was my preference. It felt so right to take his hand to walk back to Andrew – I think if he had proposed I take his hand to walk back to Derbyshire instead I would have done so gladly._

" _I partnered with Lord Hildenborough for the next, and tho my dances did not fill so quickly as those of Lady Ellen Montfort, they did at least fill. The same could not be said for Cathy, and after she had to sit out the quadrille I saw Sir Lewis de Bourgh approach her. I was glad she accepted him, although I think it was more to ensure she had no further lack of consequence by sitting out another dance. Poor Sir Lewis._

" _My feet hurt so badly by the end of the night but I was happy it had gone so well. And at the end of the dancing, Mr. Courtenay, who was my last partner, escorted me over to Andrew, who was speaking to Lady Ellen Montfort, who had been his last partner. Lady Ellen said she liked my dress very much and she thought the fabric was just perfect for a polonaise. I was so surprised but I still managed to compliment her on her own dress and she seemed very kind in acknowledging my compliments. I could not hate her so much after that, although I am not sure I shall ever be able to like her."_

Elizabeth recalled well her own first ball – an assembly in Meryton she expected had been more mixed in attendance and therefore more raucous than a ball at the Pantheon in those days – and the feeling of nervous excitement that had attended it, the satisfying ache of her feet that had followed. How much more would that feeling have been heightened if she had anticipated the joy of dancing with a suitor she looked to with such affection? Elizabeth could not tell. In truth, she had never known such feelings – ones she had witnessed in Jane, Kitty, Georgiana, and even Mary. She had, of course, danced once with the man she now loved with all her heart, but her horrid thoughts at that time had been filled with contempt. She could look back now and understand a certain frisson between the two of them, could understand that her feelings, even when misguided, had always been strong. This happy, stomach-churning anticipation of these other romances, however, was not something she would ever know.

Knowing her husband as a wife did for so many years, she could readily recognise how very like his mother he was, and she wondered how he must have felt, in asking for her hand at the Netherfield ball. In being able to read of Lady Anne's thoughts and worries in this fashion, Elizabeth had found herself immediately sympathising with the young lady, a sympathy that had been much harder earned by Lady Anne's son. How different might things have been, Elizabeth wondered, if she could have understood _him_ so well from the very beginning? Such a question could have no firm answer, and she read on.

" _March 25, 1779_

" _Lady Ellen was not at Almack's Assembly Rooms last night. Her absence prompted quite a lot of disappointment from all of the gentlemen present, although the Duke of Rougham was the only one who openly sulked. I think he is as smitten with her as Sir Lewis is with Cathy. For the rest of the ladies, her absence meant the rest of us were more interesting than we might have been. I wish that might have been better for me, but I have not met any men who interest me more than Mr. Darcy, and while I was dancing with Lord Hildenborough I overheard something very distressing. Mr. Courtenay and Lord Bolsover were speaking and it became clear they were talking about asking me to dance for Mr. Courtenay exclaimed, 'Lady Silence? She may be pretty but I'd like some manner of conversation from my partner when dancing, as well as in life.' He looked right at me and I was mortified. I know that I am not very inclined to speak much with most young men, and perhaps this is why I have not had so many inclined to dance with me at every assembly. Mr. Darcy has done so, else I would have been far more upset long before now, but I cannot know whether he does so because he truly has some interest in me or because he feels obliged to dance with his friend's sister. Still, I was glad I was dancing the next with him, for he sensed I was upset and asked what the matter was. I think if a little time had passed I would have kept it to myself, but I could not but share it with him. He said he had heard that sobriquet a few times for me and had always spoken against it, for he always enjoyed conversing with me. I felt much better after that and we spoke throughout our time together, so I hope Mr. Courtenay saw."_

Elizabeth was required to set the journal aside, for a time, to wipe at the tears in her eyes and further feel her own guilt. "I am so sorry, my love," she whispered. "Would that I could have understood you so well as your father did her, from the very beginning."

" _I mentioned it to grandmother this morning and she was also reassuring, although in a very different way than Mr. Darcy. She said let them call me Lady Silence, for it was better than some of these other young debs who liked to rattle on without saying anything of import. There were plenty of men out there who would like a quiet, pretty, complacent wife, she said. She looked at Cathy when she said it and I understood what she meant. Cathy did not, of course."_

It was as Elizabeth was contemplating what the previous Mr. Darcy had apparently looked for in a wife – certainly not what his son had desired – that there was another knock at the door. It was Henry, the footman, asking if she wished for light in the room. It was twilight, Elizabeth realised.

"Just the sconces on the wall, please," she said, "and please bring the oil lamp in from the sitting room. Oh – and I would like a chamberstick. There is something I wish to look at in the gallery."

"Of course, ma'am." Henry saw to the chamberstick first, asked if she wished for additional candles to be lit within the gallery – she did not – and was seeing to the sconces when Elizabeth took up her chamberstick and left the room.

She walked to the gallery, the light from her candle bouncing against the walls, and stopped at the portrait of the previous generation of Darcys. It was by Gainsborough, painted late in his life, and showed Mr. and Lady Anne Darcy within what Elizabeth presumed to be Pemberley Woods. Mr. Darcy stood beside his wife, who was wearing one of the chemise dresses of the time and seated – holding her son, who could not have been more than two years old – within her arms. Elizabeth had always focused her attention upon the little boy, amused by the solemn expression upon his face, but now she held her candle closer to his mother. Lady Anne's countenance was even more enigmatic than that of her son – there was perhaps a faint hint of pleasure, of contentedness, but mostly there was reserve.

Elizabeth now saw better echoes of that reserve, when she stepped over to put her candle before the portrait of her husband. She gazed up at him and thought about Lady Anne's grandmother stating that men would like a "quiet, pretty, complacent wife," and laughed softly. "You did not want that, did you?" she whispered. "You knew what you wanted and not even a spiteful refusal was enough to stop you, thank God. I am so glad you are happy, that you got what you wanted. I am sure life would have been much more peaceful for you, had you chosen a complacent wife."

She gazed at him for some time longer, but realised how strange she must have seemed – although no one should have been in this part of the house to observe her – to be speaking to her husband's portrait when he had only left for the quarter sessions that morning. With a last glimpse over his countenance, she turned to go back to her bedchamber.

Henry had left the oil lamp burning on the nightstand, and once Sarah had come to change her mistress – finding Mrs. Darcy much shorter of patience than usual, and dismissive over Sarah's concerns as to how her dress could have gotten so dusty – Elizabeth clambered up into the bed and kicked the brocade out of her way, curling up on her side to read:

" _March 30, 1779_

" _Lady Ellen was at the Pantheon last night, and I hardly know how it came about, but one moment we were speaking of how the weather is improving and the next we were forming an expedition to Ranelagh. It is to be a far more intimate party than I ever expected to form with Lady Ellen – it is to be her, her companion Mrs. Rowe, Lord Hildenborough, Mr. Darcy, Andrew, myself, and Cathy._

" _I need not write again that I anticipate it because Mr. Darcy is to form part of the party. We danced again and it was every bit as wonderful as it always is. But I am anticipating simply going to Ranelagh. Grandmother took me some years ago just so I could see the gardens and enjoy the music, but as I was not yet out in society, it was a different experience than I think it will be to go with a party of young people._

" _At the end of the evening, Mr. Darcy also asked Andrew if he thought it would be acceptable for his parents to invite us all to dine, including grandmother. Andrew said he thought we would all be happy to accept such an invitation, and Mr. Darcy said his mother would call on us to issue it._

" _March 31, 1779_

" _Mrs. Darcy called on us this morning, and we decided next Tuesday would suit us all to dine. She is just a little taller than me, for having such a tall son, and I found her manners to be very kindly, particularly towards me, asking about my playing of the harpsichord and the pianoforte. She said she had heard from her son that I played beautifully and hoped I would oblige her by playing after dinner. I can only presume Mr. Darcy – or I suppose I should write Mr. George Darcy, as Mr. Darcy to her is her husband – told her I am the most shy of my family and to ensure my comfort. We are still too new in our acquaintance for me to hope for anything else."_

" _April 7, 1779_

" _Dinner was so lovely, I am so happy! The Darcys live in a terrace house, so it is not so big as grandmother's house, but I found it a fine enough size. Mrs. Darcy was very warm towards me but she did seem a bit nervous, I think because of having grandmother in her drawing-room. Mr. Darcy the father seems much sterner than his son. I will not say he was unkind, merely very formal and serious. He seemed very firm in his opinions, although I suppose I can find no fault in that given he did not seem to be incorrect in any of them. He has a brother who is a judge and a widower so it was just the 8 of us to dine. As everyone else was of higher rank than Mr. George Darcy and I, I got to go in with him, and we sat beside each other and conversed for much of the night – his mother was beside him and sometimes she spoke to me as well. When the ladies went through, it was Mrs. Darcy and grandmother who managed the conversation. Cathy hardly spoke at all – she was sulking because she thinks the Darcys beneath us. The gentlemen came through after very little time – Mrs. Darcy poured out the tea and then asked if I would favour them with a song on the pianoforte. The Darcys have only a pianoforte – I do not know whether there was once a harpsichord and it had been replaced, or if no one in the family was musical enough for the older instrument. But their pianoforte is a very pretty Broadwood."_

" _I played the Mozart and I was very nervous because I am still so new to it and to the instrument, but when I was done everyone applauded, even Cathy! Mr. Darcy even said he was impressed by my talent and dedication to practise. Mr. George Darcy came over to take my hand to lead me away from the instrument and he murmured that this was very high praise from his father, who was never one to exaggerate. For himself he was very impressed that I had adjusted to the pianoforte so quickly. Then he escorted me over to an open sofa where we might sit together, and went to bring me another cup of tea."_

" _Can it be any wonder that I am so happy after such a night? I still do not have any notion of Mr. George Darcy's feelings towards me, but if things do move towards a match between us, I know that I have made a favourable impression on his parents._

" _April 13, 1779_

" _I was not sure what would come of our expedition to Ranelagh, but overall I enjoyed forming part of such a party. The only person among us who was more than thirty years of age was Mrs. Rowe and she hardly spoke at all unless Lady Ellen addressed her._

" _I wore my green silk dress and as Lady Ellen was also dressed a'l'anglaise I felt very comfortable in my choice. Cathy was dressed a'l'nglaise as well but with that garish embroidery she insists becomes her. We went to the Rotunda first and I adored the decoration and the detail but then I made myself stop gawping before Cathy told me to do so. We got a box, to dine, if cold chicken and ham with weak tea can be called dining. I had been wanting to stay until the musicians began their concert, but once the food was gone everyone began speaking of going to see the Chinese House and then they were leaving the box. Mr. Darcy was waiting for me as I came out of the box and he asked if I had wanted to stay for the concert and I said that I had rather done so but I did not mind going to see the Chinese House instead. He said he thought so and wished he had spoken on my behalf. This was very embarrassing to me that he felt I could not speak for myself although some part of me was pleased that he thought of me. I experienced some moments of bitterness and almost said that Lady Silence ought to learn to speak for herself. I am glad I – perhaps true to my sobriquet – stayed silent and just took his hand so we could follow the others. He said he was sure there would be other opportunities this season for me to listen to music I did not have to make myself and in all likelihood they would be better opportunities than those offered by Ranelagh this evening, for he thought the days of Mozart performing here were past. So we followed after the others to the Chinese House. Lord Hildenborough had taken Cathy's hand and Andrew Lady Ellen's, and her companion followed after all of us to act as chaperone. There was much to look at in the Chinese House and by the time we came out the fireworks had begun, so we went to watch. They were beautiful and I enjoyed them very much. Our group had rearranged ourselves by this time so I was beside Lord Hildenborough, and Andrew with Cathy and Mr. Darcy with Lady Ellen. I find Lord Hildenborough to be pleasant company and he seemed to be enjoying the fireworks as well so I didn't mind too much. Although I could never say I enjoy his company as much as Mr. Darcy's, I find I enjoy it much more than any of the other men I have met this season."_

Elizabeth rubbed her eyes, well aware that she should not read any more that night, and yet exceedingly tempted to do so. There was something she adored about Lady Anne's sweet, simple and yet very deep affections – they made her wish she could travel back through time and give the poor young lady a hug and say it would all turn out well in the end. That was the strange crux of it – Elizabeth knew that it would all come out, but she did not know how, and she had come to understand that would be the most important part of this love-story. Even that it was a love-story was a bit of a surprise. Darcy and Georgiana always spoke of their parents as honourable people, responsible people, good people, but Elizabeth had presumed – quite wrongly, as it turned out – that even if their marriage had not been arranged, it had not been based on deep, romantic love. No-one of their generation had married for love, Lady Catherine had once claimed. Elizabeth had believed her at the time, but now saw _Cathy_ according to her own suspicions and Lady Anne's observations: she was a woman who stated the world was as she saw it, and put blinders on when it came to anything that did not agree with her own interpretations. Lady Anne was such a delightfully different person from her sister, and it was clear the young lady's heart had raced any time George Darcy was near. The thing that was missing from the love-story, Elizabeth realised, was confirmation that Anne's Mr. Darcy returned her affections.

"If you marry her and do not love her, I swear I will – " Elizabeth's diatribe dropped off, for there was little recourse she could have against a man who had been dead for a dozen years. She was about to continue on to the next entry, but crying from her dressing-room next door informed her that Charles had need of her, and she had risen from the bed and was approaching the connecting door to that chamber when Browning knocked, entered, and held out the boy to her.

Elizabeth took him up into the bed with her, and somewhat guiltily endeavoured to fit in another entry as her son nursed.

" _April 20, 1779_

" _Lady Ellen was absent from the Pantheon last night, as were some other of the more important members of society. There was said to be a private party given by the Earl of Whitehaven, which we were not invited to. He is too young to consider grandmother an important connexion, but not so young as to be an acquaintance of Andrew's._

" _Of course everyone noticed Lady Ellen's absence. Only Andrew and I noticed Mr. Darcy was also absent. I am glad Cathy did not notice, for I am sure she would have had much to say about how a commoner could be invited to such an event while we were not. But for myself I could only recall that Mr. Darcy and Lady Ellen had been walking together while we were at Ranelagh. I had thought nothing of it at the time for like everyone I had presumed she would marry very high – she could have any current or future duke she wants, I am sure. Yet Lady Ellen's situation is without precedent already – her fortune would be sufficient to buy a title for a gentleman who wished for it, particularly one who already came from an old and respected family. Perhaps this is why Lady Ellen wished to form part of such a small party at Ranelagh. Without being able to see them myself at Lord Whitehaven's fete I cannot know with any certainty, but then again if they are carrying on a flirtation I think I would rather not be required to watch."_


	26. Part 1, Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to redistribute the posting a little bit so it will no longer be 5 chapters in a batch, but I am going to endeavour to keep posting two batches per weekend. This batch will be chapters 26-28.
> 
> Readers should also be aware that this chapter includes sexual assault.

**Chapter 26**

Elizabeth awoke recalling little other than poor Lady Anne's having endured several more social situations after the Pantheon that had left her feeling overwhelmed in the midst of that glittering season of the past, which Elizabeth recognised as being even more aggressive than what she and her husband faced when in town at that time of year. Grasping about her in the bedlinens, she located the journal and continued reading.

" _April 27, 1779_

" _Grandmother revealed to us at breakfast that she had invited the Darcys to dine this evening and then to the opera with us. I had been hoping she would reciprocate their dinner but had not thought she would honour them so. She is very careful in her invitations to the box and has the right to be since she now pays for it all – mama wanted to give it up to save the cost but grandmother said if we did that it would be the end of our standing as a family, for nothing could signify our poverty more clearly._

" _I had already been planning to wear the yellow and pink silk and I am glad I just had my hair done three days ago so it will look very nice for the evening. Grandmother said I can wear her pink topaz set so I think I shall look as well as I can. I had been anticipating the evening already, but to know I am to spend it in his company gives me such nervous flutterings in my stomach. As ever I wonder if there will be a time when the thought of his presence does not make me thus?_

" _April 28, 1779_

" _Last night was half happiness and half agony. I am not in spirits to write much of the happier portion, dinner and the opera until the first intermission. I had felt Mr. Darcy – Mr. George Darcy – to be paying me more attention than anyone else in our party, and we spoke of many things, as we usually do._

" _It was only at the intermission, when we all left the box to walk and be seen and get refreshments, that we encountered Lady Ellen, her father, and Sir Walter Trevallyn, a M.P. who seems often in her father's company. The younger members of our group had walked ahead of grandmother and Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, and Lady Ellen glided up to us and greeted our party with more warmth than I have ever heard from her. And who could her warmth be directed towards but Mr. Darcy? I felt at that moment such a strong pang of jealousy and hopelessness that I wanted to go home so I could be alone in my disappointment, but of course I was required to hide my feelings. Andrew, Mr. Darcy, and Lady Ellen all spoke until the intermission was over. Cathy was silent because she does not like Lady Ellen and I was silent because I did not trust myself to speak. The evening was ruined, for me – all I could think of was the two of them, wed. What a handsome, elegant couple they would make. How they would make their way so smoothly through society, conversing easily with everyone they met. When I think of this, I think that Lady Silence is no match for the likes of Mr. George Darcy – even with a larger dowry, I think there would be no reason for such a man to look twice at someone such as me, except that I am the sister of his friend. I was brought so low by such thoughts that I do not think I spoke two words together for the remainder of the evening, but it did not matter, for no-one seemed to notice."_

Did George Darcy notice? At this point in her reading, Elizabeth could see a number of possibilities, and the one she did not like was the thought of George Darcy's preferring Lady Ellen, but that lady choosing Andrew Fitzwilliam, and George Darcy then turning his thoughts towards the younger sister of his rival. Yet everything Anne wrote thus far did not place the two friends as romantic rivals – in truth, they seemed hardly romantic at all, for merely dancing with young ladies at balls ought to be considered part of a young man's life, and therefore it should not be thought peculiar unless he showed one lady particular attention.

" _May 4, 1779_

" _My spirits are still low, and I did not wish to attend the masquerade at the Pantheon tonight, but Andrew said everyone was going to be there and even Cathy was keen to attend, which surprised me since I would have thought she would feel such an event beneath her. I wanted to tell Andrew that it didn't much matter if everyone was going to be there since we would all be wearing masks, but I did not have the spirit to contradict him. Grandmother had some very pretty old masks for us to choose from – Andrew was to be a wolf, and Cathy a fox. I chose a cat – I think perhaps it was intended to be a lion, but on me Andrew said it looked more like a kitten. He squeezed my shoulder after he said it, tho, and said he was glad I was coming and he thought we were going to have a very enjoyable evening._

" _Andrew was wrong, tho. I felt uncomfortable almost from the moment we arrived. I am never comfortable around strangers and now here was a whole ballroom full of them, all wearing masks, so I could not even gauge their feelings by their countenances. Some gentlemen came by and asked us to dance, but I did not wish to dance with a man without knowing who he was and said I was not dancing. The man I refused was wearing a bear mask and seemed to take some offense that I had refused – he asked why I bothered to come to a ball if I did not intend to dance. I did not respond and was surprised to find Cathy accepting his friend's hand for the Allemande. When they had gone, Andrew apologised for encouraging me to come if I was so discomfited, and I accepted his apology and said I was sorry I was not more daring. I felt badly for him. I was sure he would rather have danced, as there were many prettily dressed women and all of them looked beautiful thanks to their masks, which I suppose is the appeal of the masquerade._

" _We watched the dancers at the Allemande, but halfway through the dance I observed that I had not seen Cathy in her fox mask come around in some time, and Andrew said he had noticed the same. He sounded troubled, and when the dance ended and Cathy did not come back, he said he had better go and search for her. He led me to a quiet spot beyond the colonnades and asked me to wait there while he searched for Cathy. I was glad he had thought to take me somewhere quiet and I stood against the wall and waited as Andrew strode off._

" _What happened next is so distressing that even now I can hardly write about it without shaking. The man in the bear mask walked by and noticed me standing there. He approached and stood too close to me – he was nearly a head taller than me and this intimidated me and I am sure he knew it. He said since Kitten would not give him a dance, perhaps she would give him a kiss. He stepped even closer to me and tried to kiss me on my mouth, but I turned my head and tried to push him away. He was much stronger than me, tho, and he kept trying to kiss me and was trying to put his hand in the opening to my pocket. I have never been so frightened in my life but then he was pulled away from me quite violently. I thought it was Andrew returned, but then I saw my rescuer wore an owl mask and he was still taller than either Andrew or that awful man. He showed the bear man his fist and the bear man said in a nasty tone that he could have me, as I was more a limp fish than a Kitten, and walked off._

"' _Madam, are you well?' asked my rescuer, and I shall never forget it, for when he spoke his voice revealed him to be Mr. Darcy! I was so surprised I exclaimed his name and I think he was equally surprised to learn it was me, which I had not expected, for my initial assumption was that he had intervened knowing the lady being accosted was an acquaintance of his. But no, good, excellent man that he is, he intervened merely because there was a lady in distress."_

"Oh, thank God for you, Mr. Darcy!" exclaimed Elizabeth, rather more loudly than she should. Fortunately, no-one would be close enough to hear her, with her own Mr. Darcy gone from the house. She had read Lady Anne's account with increasing concern to think of a poor young woman taken to such an event against her will, made miserable, and then treated thus by a stranger. In truth Elizabeth had not thought anyone of the Fitzwilliams's or Darcys's standing had attended such events, but thought it must have been different, back then. Relieved, she read on:

" _He asked where Andrew was and why he had left me all alone and his tone in doing so was so harsh that he startled me, although I think my reaction was in part because I was still very upset by what had happened. Mr. Darcy noticed and apologised – he said he had allowed his temper to get the better of him. He observed that I was trembling and offered his hand and when I went to take it, was surprised to find he clasped my fingers rather than just letting me lay my hand atop his in the usual manner. It did help calm me a little, but more than that it reassured me that I was safe and now under the protection of the best of men. He asked if I wished to go get a glass of wine to help settle my nerves and I said I'd promised Andrew I would stay there and wait for him, and Mr. Darcy said, 'hang Andrew – he left you here all alone.' So I let him lead me over to the refreshments table and get me a glass of wine. He finally let go of my hand as he did so, but once I had taken up my glass, he took my other hand and clasped it again. I drank a little of the wine and felt much better settled as we walked back over to where I had been waiting for Andrew._

" _Andrew himself was there with Cathy and looking for me. He started to accost me for leaving that place, but he did not get very far before he got an earful from Mr. Darcy about leaving me unprotected and could say no more. Andrew said Cathy was unwell and we needed to go home, and Mr. Darcy said that was a shame, as he had been hoping to convince us to abandon this ball – he was not very enamoured with it, and thought none of us was either – and go to Ranelagh or Vauxhall instead. I looked at Andrew hopefully – if Cathy was unwell we could always take her back to the house and then go on to the gardens. And she did not look at all unwell, although I supposed at the time that her mask might have been hiding the signs of her illness. But Andrew said perhaps some other night – we were all to go home. So Mr. Darcy said he would walk with us. He was still holding my hand when we went out to wait for the carriage, and if Andrew or Cathy noticed, neither of them said anything. At the time I did not know what to make of it, and still do not know now – I cannot know if affection formed part of his purpose or if he was still seeking to settle me after what had happened. But now at least I know my own resolve better, for I have decided that even if he is courting Lady Ellen, I will still enjoy what of his attentions he is willing to give, and while I do not think I can be flirtatious, I will do what I can to help him see that my affections are engaged. This resolve was certainly the best thing to come of the evening, for once Andrew, Cathy and I had got into the carriage, they commenced yelling at each other. I had thought my nerves settled but it made me very fretful, especially since at first I could not tell why they were doing so. But eventually I came to understand that Andrew had found Cathy in an amorous embrace with the Duke of Rougham, and Cathy thought that if she had been left alone with him for another 10 minutes she would have snared him. Andrew cried that she was a fool if she thought that, for no man would feel himself bound to any woman for an assignation at such an event, and Rougham was no fool – he had his sights set much higher. We all knew he meant Lady Ellen and O, how angry that made Cathy! She screeched and screamed the whole way back to grandmother's house. When the carriage stopped Andrew said he'd have her sent back to Stradbroke if she could not behave for this wasn't fair to me, and this just made her even angrier and she shouted that it wasn't fair to her that I was out in society at all. Then she jumped out of the carriage and ripped off her mask and threw it at Andrew. All of the shouting had given me a head-ache and Andrew said he'd have them send up some laudanum for me. He apologised for the shouting and even more so for putting me in such a dangerous situation – he said it was no excuse but if Cathy ruined herself, we would both be ruined. He said he was eternally grateful Darcy had come along at the right time. Of course my feelings were much more than mere gratitude._

" _Even with the laudanum I had a hard time sleeping – I kept thinking of the most awful and wonderful moments of the evening, and how they had come within moments of each other. I wanted to think only of Mr. Darcy and his goodness, his holding my hand, but sometimes I could not but stop my mind from flitting to the man in the bear mask, from wondering what would have happened if Mr. Darcy had not come along."_

Elizabeth rose from the bed upon reading this entry, for as Charles had not needed her during the night, it followed that his hunger would arise soon, and she wished to have some control over the situation when it did. She nursed him and then took him up to the nursery, finding there that her entry was greeted with great enthusiasm by the rest of her children. She had not spent nearly so much time with them yesterday as she usually did, and after she had nursed Charles, she played with them for some time to assuage her guilt, although her mind was still on the romance – what she dearly hoped was not a one-sided romance – of Lady Anne and George Darcy. She asked that a tray be sent to her room for breakfast, and was finally able to return to the journal as she ate.

" _May 5, 1779_

" _Mr. Darcy called this morning, and when he came into the drawing-room, he asked particularly how I was feeling after the masquerade ball. I was glad of his solicitude and told him honestly that I was better but still sometimes a little shaken. He said he was sorry to hear the event had such a lingering effect on me and that he feared I had not been entirely in spirits even before that. I asked what he meant and he said he apologised if he had overstepped but I had not seemed myself at the opera. I was quite speechless to realise he had apparently noticed my upset on that evening and he continued speaking, saying he could understand how my first season might have been quite wearying. There is something about his attention that I adore, as tho I am the most important person in the world to him. Of course, I have no notion of whether that is true, but that is how his gaze makes me feel. And then after he spoke of this, he said he had heard there was to be a concert by Muzio Clementi on the pianoforte. He had come intending to invite my family, and he was of hopes it was just the event to cheer me. It was – O how it was! I think I would agree to go with him regardless of what the outing was – if he had proposed we go to view the night-soil man at work I think I would have said 'O yes, let us go!' But to go to a concert of one of the new virtuosi on the pianoforte! O, could there be anything more formed for my happiness? I think Andrew understood this for when Mr. Darcy applied to him that we should all go to the concert his enthusiasm was nothing near mine, but he agreed readily. Cathy was even less enthusiastic but then Mr. Darcy said he was sure her happiness would equal mine since she was such a lover of music. He looked askance at me with just the slightest corner of his lovely mouth upturned and it was all I could do to keep from giggling. Cathy was trapped and had to say that of course a lover of music such as herself would anticipate the concert, although she could not like this new fashion of favouring the pianoforte over the harpsichord. Even grandmother said she wished to attend, and Mr. Darcy said he would see to procuring the tickets._

" _I am so excited for the concert – the days I must wait through seem a wasteland of insipid at-homes and dinners. Mr. Darcy is right that I have found my first season wearying, but I believe I shall find every season wearying. I feel myself wearing a mask all the time – not the same sort as I wore to that horrid masquerade, but a mask all the same, to pretend I care about conversation I do not care about, to pretend I favour acquaintances that in truth I do not like. But in four days I can go with the man I love and watch a virtuoso perform, and I shall not need to feign interest or favour."_

"Oh good, I believe he does love her," whispered Elizabeth, basing her belief on George Darcy's noticing how the young lady had withdrawn at the opera, and that he had found an event she was certain to enjoy, where he could spend more time in Lady Anne's company. Elizabeth recalled how Matthew Stanton had done the same for Lady Anne's daughter, back during Georgiana's season – although in his case they were both lovers of music, one of the things that had fed the couple's mutual attraction. In George Darcy's case, Elizabeth did not think he had a particular passion for music – although he did, to her delight, insist on holding Lady Catherine to her own professed love. But his interest, Elizabeth hoped, was based on his interest in Lady Anne. She read on, as impatient as Anne to get to the day of the concert, and then:

" _May 11, 1779_

" _I think I am to be cursed by the presence of Lady Ellen Montfort no matter where I go. Was it too much to think she would not attend the concert? But no, she was there with her father, and what is still worse, we saw them before we had chosen our seats, and Mr. Darcy proposed we all sit together. And so the evening where I had planned to leave off my mask was instead one where I was forced to feign pleasure at meeting Lady Ellen and then at the combining of our parties._

" _My only consolation was that the mixing of our parties was such that I still got to sit next to Mr. Darcy, and Cathy was on his other side, so I did have his undivided conversation. The seat next to Cathy was empty until Sir Lewis de Bourgh claimed it. Sir Lewis all but forced her to converse with him, speaking directly to her so that it would have been exceedingly impolite not to respond. But everything she said was in that haughty tone she uses when she feels she is speaking to an inferior._

" _I hope I had no such tone when I spoke with Mr. Darcy – I tried as much as I could to indicate the warmth of my feelings in my voice. We spoke of the planned programme, and then after it had concluded, about what Mr. Clementi had played. I had adored each of the six sonatas but was most impressed by the difficulty of the second. To compose such a piece and then to play it was a demonstration of what was possible on the instrument, I thought. He agreed with me, but then everyone stood and it was time for our party to mix again, and I lost his company."_

There were more events – two more dances with Mr. Darcy at the Pantheon and Almack's, but without his giving any deeper indication of his feelings, and then:

" _May 15, 1779_

" _The season is beginning to draw to a close, and I am ever so glad. I will be happy to go back to Stradbroke and hide away from society. If I had any hopes with Mr. Darcy I would wish to stay, but I think Lady Ellen must have him for the asking if she wants him. She was at Almack's for little more than two hours last night, and caused quite a stir by dancing first with the Duke of Rougham and then with Mr. Darcy. Everyone said she was trying to choose between the Duke and the commoner and I saw nothing to contradict this. She danced next with Andrew – I presume he was there when Mr. Darcy asked and once again could not avoid it. Not long after that she left – to where, no-one knew, but it was presumed to be a very exclusive private party, and there was much speculation for the rest of the evening as to who else was missing and could be hosting it._

" _I thought it was odd that Sir Walter Trevallyn was not attending with them, but figured he was not of sufficient rank to attend whatever it was. He asked me to dance but just as I was about to say yes, Andrew turned from where he had been speaking with Lord Hildenborough and said I had promised the next to him. He glowered at Sir Walter and I thought it all very odd as I at least no longer need to dance with my brother to ensure my sets are filled, but I thought he must have had good reason for doing so and went off to dance with him. While we were dancing he told me Sir Walter was not a good man and I should not dance with him and should be careful in his presence. I thought back to the man in the bear mask. They are not the same man – the man in the bear mask had been heavier – but I knew what Andrew meant by his not being a good man and I promised him I would be careful and avoid Sir Walter Trevallyn._

" _May 17, 1779_

" _We just had the strangest call – I hardly know what to make of it, but the end result is that we shall be going to Cornwall for part of the summer. Lady Ellen and Lord Lynton called with an invitation that they were having a house party at Tremont and hoped we all would attend. Lord Lynton did most of the speaking, but Lady Ellen seemed very eager to second him, and I thought perhaps she felt Mr. Darcy more inclined to attend and enjoy himself if Andrew was there. Lord Lynton admitted it to be a long journey and not the easiest, for many roads in Cornwall remain unimproved, but he said we could expect the best hospitality he had to offer and the opportunity to tour the Cornish coast once we arrived. Grandmother proclaimed it too far to travel for a woman of her age, but had no objections to the young people going provided Mrs. Rowe was to be in attendance. Lord Lynton assured grandmother that she would be and then it was left to Andrew to accept. He could not do otherwise – it was certain to be the most exclusive house party of the summer. For myself, as I felt Mr. Darcy was also certain to receive an invitation, I was glad to go, although I fear I shall have to witness a betrothal between the two of them, for I do not think I have the power to stop such a thing. Even Cathy politely indicated her pleasure at the invitation, although she began abusing them as soon as they left, speaking of how unacceptable it was to live in such a remote place and how it was likely to be dirty, with so many mines about. Andrew said if she did not wish to go she could return to Stradbroke, which put a stopper in her. He said anyone of importance was likely to be invited and we were very fortunate to have been included. He was concerned about the cost of travel, tho, to go such a distance, and I could tell he was angry to have to be concerned about such costs. He was concerned enough to take out pen and paper and Paterson's road book to calculate the distance, and when he was done, he sighed. He saw that my attention was on him and he said, 'Anne, I will make this Earldom respectable again. I do not know how, but I will.' Poor Andrew, who should have been born to wealth and ease! How my heart aches for him!_

" _May 19,1779_

" _I was right that Mr. Darcy would also be invited to the house party at Tremont, and in the very happiest of developments we are to travel with him! He called this morning and said he was going and understood we were to go as well and he wondered if we might like to travel with him as otherwise it would be a lonely journey for him. His parents were making their town carriage available for him and it would be just perfect for four but rather lonely for one. This was what he said, but I could not help but wonder if after having travelled on the continent with Andrew, he was aware of his friend's concerns over the cost of the journey and had come to volunteer a conveyance under the auspices of sociability. Then again, I can imagine so amiable a man as Mr. Darcy being bored to travel all that distance alone, even with some favourites to accompany him from what I understand to be an exceptional library at Pemberley._

" _So we are to be in his company for the entire journey to Cornwall! If ever I was to have a chance to capture his heart, it is this. Andrew and Mr. Darcy think it will take us at least four days to travel there, and possibly more if the weather does not oblige us. At least four days, in a carriage with him, breakfasting and dining with him – the thought of it almost makes me faint with anticipation. So long as the weather obliges we are to set out on the 25th._

" _The Queen's birthday ball is this evening. Mr. Darcy is not to attend, and I fear it shall be a squeeze and not at all enjoyable, but it will be easier to endure with the knowledge that I have this trip ahead of me."_

Elizabeth felt almost certain that things must come to a head at this house party at Tremont. They would all be there, and Lady Anne would travel there with Mr. Darcy, so perhaps their romance might be resolved even sooner. The next entry was of Queen Charlotte's birthday ball, which had indeed proved to be a tremendous squeeze and not at all enjoyed by Lady Anne, although Lady Ellen had come up to her and said – with what had seemed sincerity to Lady Anne – that she was very pleased Lady Anne would be attending the house party. There was one final entry in this journal:

" _May 24, 1779_

" _The weather has been fine today and promises to be such tomorrow, so we shall set out as planned. I have packed all my best dresses, my favourite music, and Sir Charles Grandison, although I hope I shall not get much reading done with Mr. Darcy in the carriage. I hope to converse with him as much as I can, to try to show him what is in my heart – what has been in my heart since nearly the first moment of our meeting."_

Several blank pages followed, and Elizabeth presumed Lady Anne had wished to take a new journal with her on her travels. She went back into the hidden room to retrieve the next book. Once there, with the volume in her hand, she felt the same compulsion Lady Anne must have, to hide away from the rest of the world, and pushed the door closed. She sat down on the chaise with the journal and saw that it had been positioned carefully, for she had a fine view of Pemberley's grounds as she read.

" _May 30, 1779_

" _I dared not write anything here while I was sharing a room with Cathy, and so it is only now that I have been placed in this very fine room of my own at Tremont that I feel safe taking this out. Not that I have anything happy to write. Perhaps I would have if I had dared write anything at our first stop overnight, the Star and Garter in Andover. During our first day of travel he was his usual self, I thought, amiable and conversable and solicitous towards Cathy and me, although with those occasional conscious glances towards me or Andrew when Cathy would make one of her absurd statements. And we were a very merry party when we dined that evening, but when we breakfasted that morning, he seemed rather – cold, I suppose I would say – in his manner, particularly towards the two of us ladies. It was raining that morning and I thought perhaps his temper was affected by the delay in our journey, but as the days passed it became clear that this was to be a lasting change in his manners towards me. I have thought and thought over what I could have done to cause it, and all I can think is that I must have shown too much affection that first day, and Mr. Darcy, who seeks a better matrimonial prize, has altered his manners to ensure there are no expectations he cannot meet. I came to understand this about halfway through the journey and it made me tremendously sad, to know I have no chance with him, to not even be able to enjoy those few remaining days in his company before he entered what might be his final field of battle against the Duke of Rougham, to see which of them won the fairest lady's hand._

" _I tried to read, but the roads were so bad that it made me feel a little ill, so I was left to watch the scenery for the rest of the journey, as Mr. Darcy and Andrew both chose to read and Cathy mostly just sat and looked like she had been chewing on lemons, her face was so pinched. At one point I tried to ask her if the roads had made her a little ill, as they had me, but she just snapped that she did not have a weak constitution and she was perfectly well, so I didn't ask after her any more after that. It was strange, for the change of horses after this, Mr. Darcy asked if I would like to step out into the yard and take a little air, for he thought it would help if I had been feeling unwell, and he was as solicitous as ever when he handed me down from the carriage. But when it came time to regain the carriage, his manners had grown cold again. I cannot like this new, more mercurial form of him – if he intends to offer for Lady Ellen and therefore pushes me away, let him be firm in his resolve. False hope at such a time can only give the greatest pain."_

"Oh no," whispered Elizabeth, feeling poor Lady Anne's heartache deeply, and yet knowing it could not feel so painful for her as it had for the young lady – for her young mother-in-law. But Lady Anne _was_ her mother-in-law, Elizabeth reminded herself, and ultimately she had married her Mr. Darcy. Something had happened, Elizabeth felt certain, something Lady Anne had not witnessed, and Elizabeth had a strong suspicion as to who had been behind it. She had been wrong, she thought, not to give more merit to Lady Catherine as an adversary. Elizabeth read on.

" _May 31, 1779_

" _Tremont is a very nice house. Lord Lynton says it dates back to Queen Elizabeth's time, but I cannot find a trace of anything from that age. The facade is modern as is the decor and furnishings within all of the rooms. It all must have cost a tremendous amount of money and yet it will all pass to a cousin after Lord Lynton dies._

" _There are 9 ladies and 10 gentlemen total in the house party. They are all known to me from Almack's but I cannot claim a particularly close connexion to any of them save Mr. Darcy and Lord Hildenborough. I hope I might make better friends with some of the ladies at the party – it is difficult to do so at a ball, particularly for someone like me. At least if I can leave this place with some friendships then something good will have come from this trip._

" _Lady Ellen has encouraged the ladies to dress informally, particularly during the day, and so I am very glad grandmother encouraged me to have two riding habits made, even though I do not ride."_

" _June 1, 1779_

" _It seems the gentlemen are to go their separate ways at the house party. They lingered for a very long time before joining us in the drawing-room last night after dinner, and it seems they were encouraged to do so by Lord Lynton. As many of his daughter's suitors were within the group, I suspect he wished to take their measure. Then this morning, they formed a plan to go down in Wheal Resolute, one of Lord Lynton's mines, so I expect we shall not see anything of them until dinner. I cannot fault Lady Ellen in her arrangements for entertaining the ladies, however. She has planned that we should have a picnic on the beach and promised easels, paints, charcoals, and paper for any of us who are artistically inclined. I have not drawn anything since my last lesson with Mr. Gintner, so I suppose it will be nice to try again in such a place, for the coast here is very rugged and beautiful._

" _Well, since writing the last, we have been on our picnic, and more occurred than I would have expected."_

Elizabeth realised someone was calling her name – Darcy, _her_ Mr. Darcy, was calling her name. It sounded as though he had been doing so for some time, and was now in either her dressing-room or bedchamber, looking for her. Guiltily, she comprehended in a sudden rush how incriminating her place here must seem to him – hidden away in his mother's secret room, reading her private journals. She had set aside such qualms in her own curiosity, but it could not be so easy for _him_ to do so. She had done it, though, and would not shy away from her guilt, so she called out,

"I am in here!"

Then she pulled at the little handle on the door and opened it. He was standing in the doorway between her bedchamber and dressing-room, an expression of shock and confusion upon his countenance.

"I – I had no idea that was there," he stated, striding up to where she stood.

"Nor did I, until yesterday," said Elizabeth. "It has your mother's things in it – I believe it was a secret space of hers."

He appeared contemplative for a few moments, but then said, "Jemmy Brown was found guilty, but the punishment was held to a fine, which I have paid. He is free – he returned to Lambton with his family."

"Thank God," Elizabeth said, embracing him. "Your efforts on his behalf did bear fruit, then."

"Yes – the other magistrates did think it odd that the largest landowner in the area was so adamantly against the actions of my nearest magistrate, and Laurence Sinclair was furious. He accused me of trying to usurp his authority, but once the other magistrates understood his own role in the event, they were quite swayed and there was nothing he could do."

"He will be more difficult to deal with now, will he not?"

"Yes, I am certain of it. All the more so because I also learned he intends to pursue enclosure of Kympton's common, and I will fight that with every means at my disposal. We made it through the war without enclosing it, and we shall not do so now to further his own greed."

"It is not just greed – he brought a great degree of debt to Berewick. I have been helping Abigail with her household accounts."

He nodded, and it became apparent that since he had delivered his news from the quarter sessions, his attention was drawn over Elizabeth's shoulder, back towards her discovery. She sighed, and stepped back.

"Come, you should see what is inside. I only found it because I noticed from outside that there was still one set of the old curtains. To think, these have been my chambers for years, and I never noticed."

"You have not spent much time in them, though," he offered, following her in.

Elizabeth showed him the watercolours first, finding him gazing wistfully at all of them – even the one with Wickham – and then Lady Anne's little treasures from the shelves. Finally, she ran her hand along the journals and said, "She kept journals – she wrote at least a little, almost every day." Her face growing very hot, Elizabeth continued, "I must confess I have been reading them. I should have spoken to you of them first, but I was so curious I could not help myself."

He drew her close and kissed her lips, softly. "My darling, I do not think I have ever seen your countenance so pink before. I do not mind – I can very well see how curiosity would have compelled you to do so, and I do think someone should read them. Why else would she have kept journals, but for posterity?"

"I – I think they were more for her own reminiscences."

"If they were such, I think she would have directed my father to destroy them after her death, and he would have obeyed her wishes. He – on his own deathbed, he spoke of a closet, but I thought he referred to the one in the master's bedchamber, and as that is not hidden, I did not comprehend him. I had no idea of there being a secret equivalent in the mistress's bedchamber."

"So you do not mind if I continue reading them?"

"No, indeed I would like for you to do so. My mother was always such an enigma, to me – I knew she loved me, but she was always more a grand lady than a warm parent. I think I would like for some greater insight into her character, but I know not what is in those journals, and I believe it would be best if someone who did not know her reviews them first."

"She was very like you – that much I can see already. Shy, and misunderstood – some of the men called her Lady Silence, and the thought of it injured her very much."

He frowned, but Elizabeth could not tell whether it was the thought of his young mother being harmed by such a sobriquet or reminiscences from his own past that prompted him to do so, and she continued, "Your father seems to be the one person she could always speak to, though, and he refuted the need to call her such a thing. She was in love with him almost from the first moment of their meeting."

"Was she? She was always so deferential to him, but I could never be certain whether it was love or her notion of being an obedient wife."

"It was most certainly love on her part."

"As it was on his," stated Darcy.

"Was it? That has not been clear so far."

Darcy appeared contemplative. "He was deeply affected by her death and I recall his fondness for her while she was alive, but I suppose I cannot say for certain what his feelings were when they first met, nor even when they married. It might have been mere affection that grew into more. I suppose as you read more you shall find out."

"Yes – you interrupted me at a most inopportune time," Elizabeth said, assuaged enough of her guilt now to teaze him. She told him then of the tangled romances between his aunt, uncle, and parents, and concluded, "It is all a very fascinating story."

"Even though you know how it will come out in the end?"

"I know that it _will_ come out, but not _how_. Your poor mother was very dejected at the loss of Mr. Darcy's attentions. Something happened to cause him to distance himself, and I suspect Lady Catherine was the saboteur. Her opinion of the Darcys's place in society must have undergone some great revision after your mother married your father, for at present Mr. Darcy is a commoner and not to be considered worthy of her sister."

He chuckled softly. "That sounds very like her."

"Your father delighted in tweaking her, I think."

"That I can readily believe – he was never close to Lady Catherine. Even when my mother was alive, we always spent much more time with the Fitzwilliams," he said. "Shall I leave you to continue reading? I believe there is rain coming; I was glad we made it back before it started."

"Yes, if you do not mind – I just want to see how it all comes out. I will read them all if you support it, but I shall slow my pace once their romance is resolved."

He kissed her again, a long, lingering kiss, and then murmured, "I shall leave you to it, then."

Elizabeth picked up the journal and found where she had left off.

" _Lady Ellen arranged that carriages should take us to the edge of the beach, and when we arrived, blankets were already laid down with rocks upon the corners to guard against the breeze, and picnic baskets in the middle. The easels were set up as well, and the most eager artists in the party took up places at them, Cathy and Lady Ellen included. I took a little walk down along the shore first – I adore the smell of the seaside. When I came back there were few easels open, but Lady Ellen called out to me that the one nearest to her was not occupied and she would enjoy my company very much. I did not know what to make of this, for I do not think anyone truly enjoys my company, but I did come to stand at that easel and took up a pencil, trying to remember all Mr. Gintner had taught me. I felt that I was making good progress until I looked over at Lady Ellen's easel and I was amazed. The delicacy of her lines, the accuracy and the beauty of the scene she had captured – if she had not 200,000 pounds to her name I am sure she might have been the next Angelica Kauffman. I complimented her in true sincerity – somehow if she is to claim Mr. Darcy, it makes it easier that she does so with more talents than elegance of form, figure, and manners – and a vast fortune, if that can be called a talent. She returned my compliment with what seemed equal candour, saying that of the accomplishments expected of young ladies, this was the one she truly enjoyed, and she expected it was the same for me on the pianoforte and the harpsichord. Then she went so far as to say that while they had not yet had a pianoforte installed at Tremont, she hoped I would practice on the harpsichord in the drawing-room whenever I wished, and that she intended to have a musical evening, on a day when the weather was poor, to consist of an early dinner and then an evening of musical performances from all of the party who played. As I was the best player she hoped I would play whatever I wished, for as long as I wished. I had not expected such a compliment from her and it made me speechless for some moments, but I did just manage to say that I had brought some favourites with me and would be happy to play._

" _We had a very fine picnic of the meat pies they call pasties here, with scalloped oysters, a cucumber sallade and saffron cakes, and as we were finishing and the footmen were gathering everything up, the gentlemen came walking down a path from the cliffs above the beach. They all looked very much as tho they had been down in a mine – there was not a clean jacket among them and most of them had some manner of grime upon their faces, Andrew and Mr. Darcy included. They greeted us boisterously and seemed in very good cheer, which I suppose I would be as well to be returned to daylight after being down in a dark, dirty mine._

" _The Duke of Rougham proposed we have a walk up to the cliffs, for he said the path up was easy enough that no lady need worry over managing it. We agreed and he was right that the path up was easy. When we reached the top, however, we found the wind much stronger there. I do not like being up high where there is a chance I may fall, and I was beginning to feel a bit distressed. Of course I know I cannot be blown off the edge of a cliff, but I was feeling very much as tho I could be. Just when I was at my most distressed, tho, Mr. Darcy came up beside me with those long strides of his and without saying a word, took my hand and tucked it beneath his arm. He was now between me and the cliff edge and I have never felt so immediately calm, so safe. O! you good, considerate man! You may feel no more for me than a mild affection towards your friend's sister, yet just as you intervened at the masquerade without knowing who the afflicted lady was, yet again you did the same on understanding my distress. Would that I could make you love me!"_

"Oh, he does love you!" exclaimed Elizabeth, more convinced than ever. Mr. Darcy's attempts to distance himself from the lady had surely been undone by seeing her distress on the cliff-top – surely his heart was engaged, and he had come to her aid because he could not bear to see her suffering. Elizabeth sympathised with them both, and also with Lady Ellen, another thread in this tangled knot of a romance. _She_ could see Lady Ellen's attempts to befriend the young lady she hoped would be her sister, but she suspected Anne's natural reserve had been supplemented with a certain prickliness towards the woman she thought was her rival. Elizabeth realised then that she had been thinking of Darcy's mother as Anne rather than Lady Anne, that she had now read too much of the lady's private thoughts to avoid such intimacy as referring to her mother-in-law by her Christian name. A few patters on the windowpane informed Elizabeth that Darcy's promised rain had arrived, and she returned her attention to the journal.

" _June 3, 1779_

" _I have not seen much of Mr. Darcy since he gave me his arm beside the cliffs. The gentlemen were again off to their own pursuits yesterday, and although rain has kept us all inside today, yet again I have the sense that he avoids my company. Perhaps he senses that the race for Lady Ellen's hand is drawing to a close, for the Duke of Rougham has been unmistakeable in his attentions towards her. Cathy, tho, seems to think she still has some chance to ensnare him and clung to him like a burr yesterday after dinner. Andrew saw this as well as I did and he came over and sat by me and said 'our sister has absolutely no shame, Anne!' We both watched as, inevitably, the Duke extricated himself and went to pay court to Lady Ellen. This was as I would have expected, but then she left her admirers and came over to sit on the sofa beside me. She told me she expected the rain would continue at least through the morrow and so she thought it would be a good day to hold the musical evening, but she wished to enquire as to whether her principal performer would be ready to play. She smiled very genuinely after this, I thought, and I assured her that I would be. I cannot explain it, but I have the sense that she is endeavouring to befriend me. I do not make friends easily and I would be glad of it – but only if she chooses the Duke of Rougham. I do not think I could bear to be friends with Lady Ellen Darcy._

" _June 4, 1779_

" _Oh, how I wish last night could have been naught but music! If it had been I could have retired quite satisfied with my own performance and with how it was received. But after all of the ladies and Lord Hildenborough – who has quite some talent on the violin – had finished playing, we all lingered in the drawing-room. The footmen brought around more tea, port, and brandy, and no one seemed inclined to stir, for the rain has continued so steady that it is almost certain we will see it tomorrow as well, and this has made everyone inclined to keep town hours. The conversation was general – the topic turned to convictions and how important it was to hold to them. Lady Ellen said she thought there was nothing more courageous than holding true to one's convictions in the face of those who would try to sway them. Her admirers all seemed to agree, until Mr. Darcy spoke. He said that it was always courageous to hold to one's convictions, but it could not be said to always be right, for what if those convictions were wrong? What if one had been influenced into those convictions by those who did not have one's best interests at heart? He looked directly at me as he said it, and I could not understand what he meant by it. Certainly I am not courageous, so perhaps he has found me wanting in that manner. But then why speak of convictions that are wrong? I hardly know what convictions I hold save loving him – does he mean that I am wrong to do so since he will offer for another? His statement provoked a lively debate, but I could hardly follow it, so confused and distressed was I, so I retired to my chamber at the earliest opportunity. I wish we had never come here – I do not know how I shall bear the misery of the coming weeks. Even if I cannot understand the grounds for Mr. Darcy's critique of me, I think it is plain enough that he finds me wanting, and of course he must not find Lady Ellen so. I think I preferred coldness and avoidance to this."_

" _June 5, 1779_

" _If I thought myself miserable yesterday, I did not yet understand the depths to which my misery could sink. I have given up any claim to Mr. Darcy, and expect we shall hear of his betrothal to Lady Ellen in the next day or so – and if things go as I expect them to, I will know the pain of my own hand in bringing it about. I had no such expectations when the day began. It was still raining steadily and after breakfast everyone dispersed to find what occupation they could within the house. I went to the drawing-room to practise on the harpsichord a little, but no-one else was there and so when I had finished I went walking through the house, trying to discover where everyone else had gone. At the end of the hallway I saw Lady Ellen enter a room, and then, not more than a minute later, Sir Walter Trevallyn followed her thither. There was something about his posture that disturbed me greatly and I recalled Andrew's warning and rushed down the hallway and into the room. It was Lady Ellen's bedchamber, I learned later. What I found when I entered was poor Lady Ellen had been backed against the wall by Sir Walter and he had his hands on either side of her head. I recalled immediately the man in the bear mask and knew how frightened she must be, even if she is braver than I (which I am sure she is because everyone is braver than I). I called out her name – I babbled some nonsense about how she had promised to give me a drawing lesson – it was the only thing I could think of at such a time – and he backed away and gave me a very angry look and stormed out of the room. Poor Lady Ellen burst into tears then and it occurred to me that maybe she had been trying to befriend me because she needed a friend. I put my arm around her and led her over to the settee at the foot of her bed and sat beside her. She told me this was not the first time Sir Walter had attempted to compromise her, for he wanted her fortune and knew she would not give him her hand willingly. I asked where her companion had been, for I thought such women had the purpose of guarding against this sort of thing, and she said she suspected Mrs. Rowe of being in league with Sir Walter, for she seemed to disappear at the most opportune times for him. I asked as well why she did not take these concerns to her father, but she said he was blind when it came to Sir Walter – she had tried to broach the subject with Lord Lynton and he had said what a capital match it would be, if his daughter and his political protégé were to marry._

" _She started weeping again and I felt so badly for her. All this time I have envied her, and I never understood her situation is also difficult, just in a different way. Lady Ellen said she was weary of all of this, of being pursued by so many men who wanted her fortune. She wished she could be married or at least betrothed, so it could all be over, but she would not accept the offers of men she did not love. I told her that any single gentleman in the house would wish to marry her, and asked if she had affections for any of them, fearing her answer as I did so. She said there was one she has far more than affections for – she is entirely in love with him – but she feared because of his situation he would not ask. I said if he thought himself beneath her, it might be her who had to ask. It pained me deeply to say it, but I would rather things come to resolution than continue as they are. She brightened when I said this, and clasped my hands and asked if I truly meant this, and I was forced to endure the pain of saying that I did._

" _I walked with her to the library, where it seemed most of the rest of the party had come to sit, so Sir Walter could not attempt to importune her again. I must have looked as poorly as I felt, for Andrew saw me and commented that I looked unwell. I said I had a head-ache, which seemed the best excuse to escape company, and asked if he would walk me up to my room, for I was mindful that I had not made myself a friend of Sir Walter, and he was not in the library. Once Andrew left me alone in my room, I had a good, long cry and that made me feel a little better. Still, tho, when I think of Mr. Darcy, I feel this ache in my chest – I did not understand heartache was a true sensation. Will the feeling lessen in time, I wonder, or will it be this painful every time I am forced to see them, to hear of them? Although it hurts, I feel I did the right thing. I was never meant to win such a fight – I am not fit for such a battlefield. They will be very happy together, I think."_

"Oh you poor, selfless creature, it's Andrew she loves!" cried Elizabeth.

"Is it indeed?" asked her husband's voice, his tone one of dry amusement. He was approaching the doorway to the little room with Charles in his arms. "He has need of you. I said I would take him down."

As he helped her with her dress and stays, Elizabeth told him of his mother's selflessness, and that she hoped it would soon be rewarded by pushing things to a resolution by removing Lady Ellen as a perceived romantic rival.

"Do you wish to read while you nurse him?" Darcy asked, gingerly picking up the journal from where she had laid it on the chaise.

"No, I think I shall wait. I have been anticipating this resolution – I do not want to be distracted while I read it," Elizabeth replied, and so it was only when Charles was finished and Darcy had tied her stays, buttoned her dress, and carried him back off to the nursery that she read:

" _June 6, 1779_

" _O, such happiness! Such sweet, exquisite happiness! How wrong I have been! How misled by my own fears! It was not all my fault, for now I know I have my own Brutus and I shall speak to her, but for now I wish to recount the happiest day of my life. _

" _It did not begin that way, of course. I took a tray in my room again for breakfast and did not attend church, but as the hours passed in the morning I decided I could not hide away forever. I went down to the drawing-room, for I thought practising the harpsichord might inform the house that I had returned to company without my having to talk to anyone. I played for a good half-hour, and poorly, for I was still very distracted, wondering when I would have to face them together. I never noticed Mr. Darcy until I finished playing and he spoke, startling me. I think he asked if I was feeling better, for after he apologised for scaring me, this was what he asked. I could hardly speak but I said I was feeling a little better and he said he was glad to hear it. Then he spoke very happily of the betrothal, as tho it was something I should already be aware of, rather than merely presuming it, and he said he understood it would be announced formally at dinner that evening by Lord Lynton. I had thought I was ready to face the news of their betrothal, but I had not counted on it being him, and him alone, to give it to me. I could not help myself – I began trembling and weeping, and he drew up a chair beside the harpsichord stool and asked if I was feeling unwell again, for he could not see how mention of the betrothal should discomfit me so. But this just made me weep all the more – I was so embarrassed, but I could not make myself stop. He was so kind to me – he said in such a soothing voice that while it would certainly be a large change within my family, he thought gaining a sister such as Lady Ellen would be of great benefit to me, given I did not receive much affection from my current sister._

" _I was so confused, and did not yet comprehend him so well as to hope. All I could manage to ask him was what he had meant by sister. At that time – dear man! – he had no notion of my fears, and said very logically that when Lady Ellen married Andrew, she would become my sister. Andrew! Andrew, I cried – I was so shocked and yet a few moments of thought made me recall all the times I had thought Lady Ellen greeting Mr. Darcy warmly, when Andrew had been standing there with him. It had been Mr. Darcy's friend towards whom the warmth had been directed! And dear Andrew, the one man who had been a friend to Lady Ellen, the one who had not pursued her, the one who had felt his situation beneath hers and would never propose – all along it had been Andrew! I understood even then that others would think him a fortune hunter, or would note his roundabout way of gaining the greatest matrimonial prize of the season, but I know Andrew, and even before I spoke to him of it I knew he would not have agreed to marry Lady Ellen unless his own affections were engaged. How quickly I could comprehend these things now, when before my mind had been mired in a muck of my own making – a muck of jealousy, if I must admit. _

" _After I had all of these realisations, I came to the most important one – that this meant Mr. Darcy was unattached. I began sobbing with relief at this thought, and he gave me his handkerchief and laid his hand on my arm in concern. I hardly know how he did it, but he managed to prise out the truth from me, that I had been upset because I had thought the betrothal would be between him and Lady Ellen. And then – O! my heart! – and then he said he had not been sure if I returned his affections, and I cried that I most certainly did! He said he was sorry for it since we could not marry and I asked him what he meant by that, and he said because I was resolved I would not marry a commoner and my family would not support it. I told him I had resolved no such thing and asked how he had come to think so and he said I had said so in the note I left under his door at the Star and Garter. I knew immediately that it had been Cathy's doing and I was so angry at her in that moment and I still am and we will certainly have words, but it is hard to maintain anger amidst such happiness. I told him I had written no such note and he laid his hand on my cheek and told me I was adorable when I was angry and I giggled and all I could feel was love. Then he clasped my hands and said he was a fool and should have considered the possibility that my sister had been behind it, but he hoped I would listen to a fool's proposal. Then he said very simply, 'Lady Anne Fitzwilliam, will you marry me?' I was weeping, so it was hard to speak, but I managed to say yes._

" _Have there ever been two persons so happy in the world? We spoke of our affections – of very long standing, I came to understand, on both sides. For so long I had worried about Lady Ellen, and yet now I learned that his heart was bound within days of meeting me at Stradbroke. It was only his uncertainty in whether I would respond favourably to his addresses that prevented him from speaking sooner. I felt overwhelmed then with a sensation of dread, and asked if he knew where things stood, as regarded papa, if he knew that I had only 10,000 pounds. He said that he was well aware of the former and would not have expected much more than the latter, and I should not worry myself over it, for it was perfectly respectable for someone like him, and moreover, no-one from his family had ever married a daughter of the nobility. I said the Earldom of Brandon was not the most respectable one to marry into at present and he said he'd always had better hopes for the next generation, but now knew with certainty that things would improve. It was only then that I began to think about what 200,000 pounds would do for Stradbroke, to think of all the mortgages paid off, all of the lands restored to the Fitzwilliams. It was a pleasant thought, so long as the affection was not one-sided between Andrew and Lady Ellen, and when a quarter-hour later Andrew interrupted my blissful conversation with Mr. Darcy and said he needed to speak with me, and Mr. Darcy had excused himself from the drawing-room, I told Andrew I was already aware of his betrothal and wished him joy, but asked him as bluntly as I am capable of if he truly loved her. He said that he did, and he would not have agreed to marry her if he did not. Even given this, he still had his doubts as to whether he was doing the right thing. Lady Ellen's fortune would restore his Earldom, but with any other man it would have done much more. I said I did not see how it was better – so long as there were men like Sir Walter out there she stood the chance of being entrapped for her fortune, and I thought it was better for her to marry someone who returned her affections. He got very angry when I mentioned Sir Walter, but then his countenance softened and he said she had told him about my intervention and he was very grateful to me for having done it. He then told me it was not the first time Sir Walter had attempted such a thing – that night she had left Almack's early, it had been because Sir Walter had attempted to importune her, and it had been Andrew who had intervened and guarded her as her carriage was called. I asked if he intended to speak to her father of it and if it would help if I told Lord Lynton what I had seen. He said he did and hoped that I would – that he would go with me as he knew approaching a man like Lord Lynton would intimidate me. Until then he said he hoped I would remain vigilant and I said I would and thought Mr. Darcy would also help keep watch on Sir Walter. There must have been something in the way I said Mr. Darcy's name, or perhaps I was blushing, for he just stared at me and I am sure I blushed still further, and then he asked if I had anything to tell him and I blurted out that we were betrothed. Andrew – that rascal! – said we were not, as no-one had consented to the marriage and I was horrified at the thought of Mr. Darcy having to apply to papa and papa probably being in his cups and then Andrew said he was just teasing me and he had papa's leave to consent to any offer for me and he could not think of a better man for me to marry. He kissed my forehead and said he was very happy for me and he had been hoping for this for a very long time. He asked if we wished to announce it that night along with his betrothal but I said no, I did not want to make Lady Ellen share such an event._

" _So I had the pleasure of going down to the drawing-room that evening and receiving a warmer smile than I have ever seen from Mr. Darcy – the smile of a man who knows his affections are returned, and one fully returned by me. We did not sit near each other at dinner, but we exchanged gazes often, particularly when the announcement was made. Almost everyone else looked shocked, except Sir Walter, who looked angry, and Cathy, who looked perturbed. I glared at her, having my own anger still strong whenever I thought about what she had done. As for Lord Lynton, he did not seem quite so happy as he might have been if it had been the Duke of Rougham, but I think Lady Ellen's apparent happiness had some effect on him. The gentlemen did not linger long by themselves – I expect it was an awkward party, composed as it was by numerous men who had just seen their hopes dashed and two who had not. Mr. Darcy came to me as soon as he saw me in the drawing-room and it was a very strange feeling to understand I can compel the very presence I have so long wished for, that I have complete command of his attention when for so long mere scraps have been cause for such happiness. We spoke for some time, of frivolous topics – the wedding will need to be arranged, of course, but the drawing-room was not a place for such talk, particularly without the betrothal being announced. After some time, Lady Ellen approached us and sat close by, saying in a low voice that she understood congratulations were in order. Her smile was soft and sincere, and I returned her felicitations with equal enthusiasm. She thanked me for my role in bringing it about. It is very strange – for so long I disliked her because she is what I am not and has what I have not – or so I thought. Now that I find I have far more reason to like her than dislike her, I think I will be very happy to gain her as a sister. I feel as tho I am gaining a new family, a family more caring and affectionate than my present one, although perhaps that is not fair to mama and grandmother. Neither of them can be described as affectionate, but I do believe they both care about me."_

Elizabeth sighed happily and gazed at the raindrops trailing down the window. "You did your best, _Cathy_ , but love won in the end," she murmured. Still, it was awful to think of a sister betraying another sister in such a malicious way – even when Lydia had nearly ruined the entire family, it had been out of foolishness, not any cruelness of intention. Elizabeth wondered if she had taken so warmly to Anne because the young lady's selflessness and goodness of heart reminded her of Jane, although Jane believed far more in the general goodness of people than Anne did, for poor Anne had learned far too young of rakes, of seducers, of men who would gamble away their family's fortune. Anne was not strong, Elizabeth thought, but she _was_ resilient, and now thankfully she would have Mr. Darcy to love her, to care for her, and she would gain a new, far superior sister. Checking her watch, Elizabeth determined she had time for one more entry before she should change for dinner.

" _June 7, 1779_

" _I dressed early this morning and went to see Cathy before she went down to breakfast, for I wanted to confront her before any more of the day passed. When I came to her bedchamber she told me she was glad I had come for she had been wanting to speak to me. She said my attentions towards Mr. Darcy had been much too particular last night. 'He was practically seated in your pocket, Anne,' was how she put it. I said he was welcome to sit as close as was appropriate for my betrothed. O, how surprised she was! She said I could not be and I said yes, I was betrothed to Mr. Darcy in spite of her interference. I asked how she could do it – how she could deliberately forge a note like that when her sister's happiness was at stake. She yelled at me that I should not be thinking to marry for happiness – that was foolish talk and it was why she had sought to set Mr. Darcy straight as should be my expectations. At least Andrew had the good sense to marry shrewdly, she said. I protested that Andrew did love Lady Ellen and to my great shock she slapped me. She said I needed to stop being foolish and do what I needed to do to advance the family. She said the engagement could be easily broken since it had not been announced. I cried that I would never break my engagement. By then I was weeping and worried Cathy would attempt to meddle still more and this was when Andrew came in and found us in such a state. I had my hand on my cheek where Cathy had hit me, and I guess Andrew understood what had happened for he shouted that was enough from her and he was ashamed of her conduct, that his friend was a perfectly eligible match for me and I would be mistress of a very fine house, and unlike her I had become betrothed in my first season rather than chasing impossibilities. Andrew said if she could not behave herself, he would see her sent back to Stradbroke. O, this made her so angry, but she dared not say anything. She just huffed and glared at us until we left._

_Andrew asked if I was badly hurt and I said no, my cheek just stung a little, but I was very worried she would do something to sabotage my betrothal. He said he was sure I could find opportunity to speak with Mr. Darcy that day to ensure he knew of Cathy's threat, but if she did follow through on it, Mr. Darcy would surely be on his guard. Andrew said he had been coming to my chamber to see if I would come with him to speak to Lord Lynton, but he was sure I needed some time to settle. I said I would rather have it over with, though, since my tears had dried – so long as there was no mark. He said there was not and asked if I was sure and I said that I was._

_I suppose it did not much matter whether I had a mark on my face, for Lord Lynton's study is the darkest room in the house, still full of old panelling and dark old furniture. He greeted Andrew cordially enough and I came to understand that while of course this was not Andrew's first interview with him, Andrew had not broached the subject of Sir Walter before. He told Lord Lynton first of what had happened at Almack's, and as Lady Ellen had predicted, Lord Lynton was dismissive. He said he understood Andrew's concerns but it was quite possible what he had seen he had misconstrued, given his own heart was biassed. Andrew said he understood how my Lord could think this and that was why he had brought me to speak of another incident that had occurred within this house. Lord Lynton had done no more than greet me before this but when he saw how nervous I was to speak he was very kind, telling Andrew to get me a glass of wine and saying 'sit down, my child, and tell me what you saw.' It was probably not a good idea to force myself to speak of such things so soon after my quarrel with Cathy, but Andrew gave me the wine and I drank a little and felt a little better, so I told Lord Lynton of everything I had seen. When I finished, he did not look angry, but his eyes were troubled, and he asked if either of us was aware of why his daughter had not come to him with these concerns, while we had. It was difficult, but I told him of what Lady Ellen had said to me, that she did not think she would be believed. He said he hoped she was wrong but supposed he could not be sure given that was not how matters had come about. If his wife had been alive, he said, he was sure she would have seen it and made him see it as well, for no-one had been a better judge of character than Lady Lynton. I was almost in tears again as he spoke, for he seemed so sad and I think he must have loved her very much. Then he said there was no-one dearer to him in this world than his Ellen and he was aggrieved that she had been left in such a vulnerable situation, and he thanked us for helping her. He asked Andrew why he had not spoken of any of it yesterday when asking for his consent and Andrew very gently reminded him that he had not believed Sir Walter's actions were malicious until my account, and it would have been rather singular to bring one's sister to the interview they had had yesterday._

_Lord Lynton nodded and then he looked at me and said, 'you will be my Ellen's sister – she has not had a sister and I am glad she gains one with such a good heart.' I blushed deeply, I am sure, for I have not had a good heart as regards Lady Ellen for so much of our acquaintance. Yet the only person who knows of that is Mr. Darcy, and I am assured of his secrecy. I informed Lord Lynton of my own betrothal to Mr. Darcy, but asked that we wait some days to announce it, as I did not want to conflict with the news of Lady Ellen and Andrew's engagement, and he said that was very kind of me._

_I was feeling rather done-for by the time we left the study, and Andrew tried to convince me to go up to my room and rest and have a tray there for breakfast but I did not want to wait to see Mr. Darcy, so I went down to breakfast. It seemed the others had all left, but he and Lady Ellen were still there, waiting for us. I almost giggled at the thought of how I might have perceived such a scene had I come upon it three days ago. There was no impropriety in it, for Mrs. Rowe was seated at the far end of the table, but I certainly would not have understood their attitude to be that of future brother and sister. Mr. Darcy noticed my weariness immediately and came to stand rather closer to me than propriety dictated (and O what a thrill that gave me!) as he pulled out my chair and asked me if I was unwell. I said that I had had a difficult morning but was sure I would be better now that I was among friends. Lady Ellen proposed that since the weather had cleared and the others had already gone off to find their own entertainments, that we might all go out for a drive together in the landau, and she could show us some of the local beauty-spots. I agreed very happily to this, as did everyone else, and I was particularly glad of it because in the walk out to the carriage I had opportunity to speak to Mr. Darcy privately about my concerns that Cathy would interfere further. He said he hoped I would not worry myself over it any longer, for he would never be swayed from his love for me, and if anything troubling did happen, he would speak to me of it. He said he hoped we would always be so honest with each other, and never withhold anything that was troubling. I agreed wholeheartedly and felt very soothed by our conversation. I asked him how he always seemed to know when I was distressed or discomfited, and always knew just what to say. He said he could not explain it, but nearly since the moment of our meeting, he had felt himself particularly attuned to me, and had found himself desirous of making me happy and acting as my protector. He said I was like a delicate rosebud who would bloom beautifully, if just given a chance, and he wanted to shelter me from the wind and the rain so that I could. O! has anything ever been so beautifully said? Has there ever been such a wonderful promise for a man to make to his betrothed?_

_We sensed, then, that Andrew and Lady Ellen were waiting for us in the landau, and Mr. Darcy handed me in. He took up my hand and quietly held it, once we set out, and although Andrew glanced down and saw what we were about, he only took it as an opportunity to do the same to his betrothed. What a delightful drive we had! Lady Ellen showed us the prettiest cliffs and coves, and I was so pleased with the beauty, the weather, my company! I think this day, which began so awfully, I shall remember as the happiest of my life._

_O, and I nearly forgot, but when we returned to the house, there were two carriages in the drive, for Sir Walter and Mrs. Rowe. O how they both looked daggers at all of us, but Sir Walter especially, for he has lost not only a chance at the lady's hand, but now also his patron."_

Elizabeth recalled a man once asking for her aunt Ellen's hand in a dance at Almack's, and his being rather curtly rebuffed, and wondered now if that man had been Sir Walter Trevallyn. If it was, she wondered if he had been seeking to apologise for his past conduct, or simply to discomfit her aunt out of spite, all these years later. She supposed she would never know, but was glad at least that Lord Lynton's patronage had been withdrawn, that he had been made to see the true character of the man who had so vexed and frightened poor Lady Ellen.

There was a soft knocking on the door, then, and Elizabeth pulled it open to find her husband standing there. "I told them to have a little dinner served in our sitting-room," he said. "I thought that might spare more time for you to read."

"That was very considerate of you, but I have got to the resolution, and it was wonderful."

"Let me guess – Lord Brandon proposed to Lady Ellen, and my father proposed to my mother."

"You are partially right. Your father did propose to your mother, but it was Lady Ellen who proposed to Lord Brandon."

He chuckled. "I suppose I should have thought of that. It does make sense that a woman of her dowry would be the one to choose, particularly with the earldom in such a state as it was before they married."

"Yes, I am sure Andrew would never have proposed to her – oh dear!" exclaimed Elizabeth, clapping a hand over her mouth. "I am going to have to be very careful, when next I am around Lord Brandon. And Lady Catherine, if ever we reconcile with her – your mother calls her Cathy."

Darcy held out against mirth for some moments, but then slowly but surely it could be seen to overspread his face, and he burst out laughing. Elizabeth followed him into it, but sobered more quickly.

"It was Lady Catherine, who tried to sabotage your mother's chances with Mr. Darcy. She told him Lady Anne would not marry a commoner and had asked her sister to tell him thus. You might not have existed, if your aunt had got her way."

"Let us be glad she did not, then," he said, drily.

"Yes, let us be very glad," Elizabeth said. "And you should know that your father was entirely your mother's equal in loving her – he fell in love with her within days of their first meeting."

"I am glad. It is good to think of their marrying for love."

"It is. And I am so very grateful he loved her thus, for I fear she would have suffered greatly without his love. I am certain she was formed to love one man, and thank God she found him. Beyond her own happiness, if she had not, there would be no _you_ ," Elizabeth said, pulling him close and kissing him deeply, a kiss mingled with the passion of their own love and those loves she had been reading about. They separated, breathing heavily, and then she kissed him again.

When finally he could manage to speak, he said, "My darling, is this what happens when you read romantic stories?"

"I suppose so," Elizabeth said, smilingly. "I am feeling very appreciative of good men, at present, and particularly of my own Mr. Darcy."


	27. Part 1, Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

Georgiana had been ashore at so many ports that she knew to expect the shock of new smells, a sharp contrast to those of sea and ship. The predominant scent of Halifax, unfortunately, was that of fish, which the little shore party from the Caroline smelled as they walked along the harbour.

The shore party consisted of the Ramseys, Mrs. Travis, Georgiana, Caroline, and little William, and of them all, Georgiana's children had been most and least indifferent as to the prospect of going ashore. Caroline, as could be expected, saw it as a grand new adventure after her time confined to the frigate, while William cared little for whether he was wrapped tightly in sailcloth against his mother's chest on board a ship or on land.

Despite her apparent enthusiasm, there was little to interest Caroline – she certainly cared not for the Commissioner's House, the grandest building in the naval dockyard – until they ventured out of the dockyard and into the source of the smell: the array of fishing boats tied up along the shore, their catch long since distributed at this hour of the day. What interested Caroline here was what interested nearly all children of her age: a dog – a great, black furry mountain of a dog – sitting next to a fisherman on the dock before his boat. Immediately upon espying this creature, Caroline was running off to greet it, and with her heart in her throat, Georgiana called out:

"Caroline, stop! You must be careful with strange dogs!" The child froze, and looked to her mother in sudden confusion and trepidation as Georgiana came up to her and said, "Most dogs are nice and good, but some are not, and those dogs bite. It would hurt very much if a dog bit you with its sharp teeth, do you understand?"

Caroline nodded, and seemed on the verge of tears until the fisherman said, "Aww, she won't bite. Gentle's the day is long. The little lady kin pet 'er, so long as you don't mind, m'lady."

Georgiana thanked the fisherman and laid her hand on Caroline's shoulder, saying, "There, now we know the dog is a good dog, so you may go and pet her if you wish."

Caroline needed no further invitation to scamper up to the dog, placing her little hand on the fur of its cheek in an endeavour to stroke it. She was interrupted, however, by the dog's immediately commencing upon a very thorough licking of Caroline's face, which the child found so hilarious as to put her in hysterical giggles. While this was happening, a portion of the dog's bulk stirred and rose sleepily, proving itself to be an older puppy, one which followed after its mother in accosting the child with its tongue.

"New'fun'lun's, from t'north," said the fisherman. "Best fishin' dogs. The lil' bitch is t'runt 'a t'litter."

He paused, letting these facts settle as the dogs ceased licking Caroline's face and gazed at her appreciatively as she attempted to pet both of them, one with each hand. The puppy, though, now awakened, was more desirous of affection, and it was not long before Caroline was giving the animal her sole attention and the puppy was rolling onto her back, happily inviting her new friend to pet her belly.

"Sell t'pup t'ye fer three guineas," murmured the fisherman.

Georgiana watched the scene before her, contemplating. Poor Caroline had been through much change during her young life; Georgiana liked the thought of giving her one friend who could be a constant, and raised understanding the cost of hunting dogs, she found the price to be a bargain. Yet even if the dog was a runt, if it approached even three-quarters of its mother's size it would be nearly as large as a small pony. She was glad that while Caroline continued petting the puppy's belly, she did not seem to understand the transaction her mother was considering. Finally, Georgiana turned to Captain Ramsey and asked,

"Do you think it would be an issue, to get her such a dog to live on board a ship? When we return home to Stanton Hall I am sure it could be managed, but I have not known a dog aboard a naval ship in my experience."

"No issue at all, so far as that is concerned," stated Captain Ramsey. "Captain Otley had one of those Newfoundland dogs, when I was a lieutenant under him. Good ship dog. If this one is anything like his beast, it can be trained to make its waste in the straw of the manger with the other animals, and then it's hardly any effort at all to keep it, aside from giving it a ration of meat."

"We shall take the puppy, then," said Georgiana to the fisherman, searching her reticule to find the necessary coins. The man accepted them, thanked her, and then disappeared into the little cabin of his boat, eventually reappearing with a length of rope in his hand. This was tied about the neck of the puppy, the opposite end given over into Caroline's hand, at which point she glanced around frantically until she saw her mother.

"The puppy is yours now, Caroline," said Georgiana, and then, after the child had emitted a few shrieks of glee, "Take the rope and bring her to us."

Georgiana did not have a great degree of confidence that this operation was to be successful. Yet when Caroline came walking back towards her mother with the rope clasped in her hand, the puppy followed willingly after its new friend, with but a little glance back towards its mother. It was months past the age of weaning, which was fortunate, Georgiana thought, but still, she would not have expected such a degree of trusting obedience.

Thus the little shore-going party walked back towards the Caroline with its canine addendum, and as they re-entered the naval dockyard, Captain Ramsey asked Caroline, "So, Caroline, what shall you call your new puppy?"

"Dog," replied Caroline. "His name is Dog."

"Caroline, dearest, she _is_ a dog, but would you not like to name her something else?" asked Georgiana. Unfortunately, she came from a family that had named a long line of horses after birds, and this puppy looked nearer a small bear than a bird. Therefore no ready alternative came to her, and the child responded,

"No, his name is Dog."

"But Caroline, she is a girl, like you," replied Georgiana. "So what would you like _her_ name to be?"

"Dog!" exclaimed Caroline. "Her name is Dog!"

There was a certain cast to Caroline's countenance that indicated to her mother that if Caroline was required to say her preference for the animal's name again it would be done in a two-year-old's screech, which is the loudest screech possible. As the creature had been purchased for the little girl, Georgiana decided to forgo the battle and at least be grateful that Caroline now understood its gender. HMS Caroline was tied against the quay, and the puppy walked readily on board and past Matthew, who looked to the dog and then his wife with a bemused countenance.

"There was a fisherman with a mother and puppy," said Georgiana. "The puppy was only three guineas and they were both ever so gentle with Caroline. I thought she could use a companion – they do get rather large, though, if the mother is any indication."

By now the puppy was sitting upon the deck, and Caroline was whispering in its ear, which perhaps justified the acquisition better than anything Georgiana could have said.

"I am familiar with the breed – they are good ship dogs," said Matthew. "What is your puppy's name, Caroline?"

"Dog. Her name is Dog."

"Well, I suppose that will prove useful in the future, lest anyone confuse her with a bear," said Matthew drily.

Throughout the remainder of the day, Dog stayed close to her new friend, except when the man who kept the cattle was enlisted to take her to the manger. The creature proved even gentler with little William, laying its paws on his cradle after Georgiana placed the baby within, and giving him just the slightest little lick on his cheek. But it was Caroline to whom the puppy was most thoroughly attached, and Caroline who took it upon herself to speak on its behalf the next day.

Georgiana had asked her daughter earlier that morning if she wished to go ashore, and she had said no. It had appeared that the shore no longer held any appeal for her, when Dog was on board the ship. Not an hour later, however, Caroline could be heard whimpering in her little cabin, and Georgiana rose from her place in the great cabin and opened the door.

"Dog want'sa go shore," she said, looking daggers at both her mother and Mrs. McClare, who had presumably already told her this could not be done.

"Sweetling, Aunt Catherine and Uncle Andrew have already gone ashore, and I gave Bowden shore leave when you said you did not want to leave the ship," replied her mother. Matthew had warned her of the dangers of walking ashore in a foreign port without a male companion, and while Halifax was far more British than the ports he had warned her of, it _was_ still a colonial port.

"I may walk with you and Caroline, if you wish," said Lord Stretford, entering the great cabin from the other side.

"Thank you, Uncle William. I did not realise you had returned," said Georgiana, for she had thought him still off calling upon the governor.

"I am just back, but I do not mind another walk," said he. "I am not such a marine creature as your papa, Caroline."

"What's a mawine cwe-tir?" was the child's reply, and they endeavoured to explain this to her as Mrs. McClare put her little boots on. Then the rope was tied about Dog's neck and the party set out. As they walked, Georgiana inquired as to how Lord Stretford's call on the governor had gone, and asked whether they would be dining with him, for this was the ritual she had become accustomed to at British ports. He responded that the call had gone well, but said there would be no dinner at the governor's house. This was not to be laid on the governor, however, who had offered the invitation.

"You see, Georgiana," Lord Stretford continued, "I am not a particularly – official – embassador, as you knew with Lord Amherst's mission to China. I said I was going to pay a call on Mr. Adams, and that is truly what it is. There will be no dinners, no formal reception of my presence, and no salutes by the frigate's guns, which has quite discomfited your husband. We thought a more quiet endeavour to influence matters was the better way to go about things."

"It seems an awfully long way to go just to pay a call, and for nothing more than some territory in the Pacific."

"Were it merely that, I would agree with you," Lord Stretford said. "However you must know that did not most of my motivation in volunteering to do so. And – you must not speak of this to anyone other than Matthew, who does know – the Pacific territories are not _my_ priority here. The Americans will likely treat with Spain, and we will not recognise it as a valid treaty. What I am truly here for is the new states they intend to add."

"The new what?"

"States. They are rather like our counties," he said, and then seeing Georgiana was still confused, he added, "It is difficult to fathom the amount of land on this continent, Georgiana, when you have grown up on our island. There is land for the taking, in the American west, and as people move there and settle, eventually there are enough of them there to require administration and representation in the Congress, which is their equivalent to Parliament."

The idea of unsettled land for the taking, of these new states simply being given representatives in government, was exceedingly incongruous to Georgiana, raised in a country where land was limited and equated to power, where people like Lord Stretford could buy a village to put a borough in his pocket. With a furrowed brow, she nodded to him to continue.

"They are adding new states at present, and there is a question of whether the states will permit slavery or not," he said.

"How could they possibly be wishing to expand slavery?" cried Georgiana. "I know men would cite financial implications, in trying to end the trade where it already exists, but I should think any reasonable man would agree it should not be expanded beyond what it is now."

"It comes down to that representation I spoke of. We have a House of Commons and a House of Lords, they have a House of Representatives and a Senate. Each state provides two men for the Senate regardless of how many people live within it, and if all of the new states do not have interests of slave owners, the slave owners will find themselves in an increasingly small minority."

"And do you truly think you can have influence over this?"

"I doubt it," said he, "but I feel a moral compulsion to make the attempt."

They walked on in silence except for Caroline, who had been chattering away to Dog over everything she saw of interest during Georgiana's conversation with Lord Stretford, and continued on when the adults had ceased speaking. They passed Lieutenant Osborne, who bowed to them, and when they had walked out of earshot Georgiana sighed and said,

"It is perhaps not good of me, for he did what was best for his family, but I wish we had sailed before Viscount Huntston had received that letter. I had wanted Matthew to have a journey with no – difficult people."

Lord Stretford nodded, and they walked some strides before he said, "Matthew's trouble is he does not understand weakness, nor cowardice. Where there is any little seed of bravery in a man, he will find it and rouse it out, and that is why he has had such successes as the Polonaise and the action on the Pearl River."

"Not just in men," replied Georgiana, contemplative. "When I gave birth to Caroline, I was so exhausted and in so much pain, and I asked Matthew to bury me on land, if I did not survive. I thought he would coddle me, reassure me, but instead he spoke so firmly, like I was one of his men. He accused me of wanting to give up. It recalled me to my resolve to see my baby into the world, and I did. I do not know if I would have made it through, if he had not rallied me in that moment."

"Such things would not have rallied every woman," said Lord Stretford. "If I would have spoken to Charlotte in such a manner, I am sure she would have fallen apart. Yet it is as I said – where there is courage and it has been lost, buried under exhaustion or fear, Matthew is the very man to find it. But his trouble is, he expects it is there in every man – and perhaps even every woman – and it is not always there."

"Do you truly think Lieutenant Osborne and Lieutenant Coombs to be cowards? I think them more bullies, than anything else. Lieutenant Osborne may not be capable of the same savagery, but he adds a measure of incompetence, instead."

"Bullies generally attempt to strike fear in others as a defence against their own fears. It is their castle walls. And in Lieutenant Osborne's case, there must be something of significance lacking – I did not know of him particularly, but it is not usual for an Osborne to remain a lieutenant all his life."

Georgiana thought back to another troublesome lieutenant, Holmes, who had served under her husband for the first part of that trip to China, and thought she saw the rightness of what Lord Stretford said. Lieutenant Osborne had started poor Mills, but he was not so bad as either Holmes or Coombs – perhaps he might be worked upon by someone who understood him better – and she asked, "Have you ever spoken to Matthew of this?"

"Nay. It was not my place to do so."

"It is your place now that he knows you are his father. Please speak to him and share these observations. I believe he will see more improvement out of this last journey if he is able to shape Osborne into a better officer."

Lord Stretford promised that he would, and they walked on.

* * *

True to Lord Stretford's indication that his presence in North America was meant to be unofficial, the Caroline stayed in Halifax only long enough to deposit the coin she had been carrying and take on fresh victuals, and then she set sail on a course for Baltimore. Georgiana was eager that Lord Stretford talk to Matthew, and the first time she found it was just the three of them sitting in the great cabin, she gave Lord Stretford a look of significance and said she was going to take a turn up on the deck.

Matthew never mentioned the conversation to her, but it became clear it had taken place in his behaviour towards Osborne. He held more frequent conferences with the lieutenant in the great cabin, but they were not usually ones for which the rest of the party needed to vacate that space. They spoke of sail trim, of navigation, of how gunnery practise had gone, and Matthew's tone was one of sympathy, of encouragement; it was the tone he used with his midshipmen. Despite the difference in their ages, Osborne seemed quite receptive to this more paternalistic approach.

Aside from this, they all passed the journey to Baltimore much as they had the crossing of the Atlantic, save Caroline and Dog, who were constantly in each others' company, often playing fetch with the little sailcloth balls that Caroline's admirers had now realised were the best gifts for her. Catherine occupied herself either by playing fetch with Caroline and Dog, or with her sketch book. Captain Ramsey and Matthew continued sparring with swords, and Matthew finally began to seem pleased with the return of his capabilities. He and Georgiana played together, as well, and while his skill on the cello seemed to return more slowly, Georgiana did not care. They were together, making music, and in the absence of other marital intimacies, at least she had this to give her pleasure.


	28. Part 1, Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

True to her promise, Elizabeth slowed her pace of reading Lady Anne's journals, and in truth the entries prior to the young lady's wedding were – while satisfying – far less interesting than those when her romance had been in doubt. Finally, Elizabeth passed the general effusions of young love and saw all of the players arriving at Stradbroke Castle for what was to be a double wedding, and then:

" _August 17, 1779_

" _I should not have thought I would have time to write here, but I am wholly ready and there is still a half hour before the ceremony, so I had been left alone with my thoughts. I have spent the morning with Lady Ellen, mama, grandmother, and Cathy, being prepared by Lady Ellen's and grandmother's Abigails. There has been some argument, for Lady Ellen and her woman proposed we should wear very light makeup and powder and I thought this a very fine idea, particularly after Lady Ellen was so complimentary of my complexion, for she claims I have the finest of anyone our age and have no need of any paint at all. I might say the same of her and told her so, but still, it was so nice of her to say. Mama and Cathy were both adamantly against it but grandmother strangely enough was the one who said that the young ladies ought to do as we wished and our husbands would soon enough know what we looked like underneath our make-up and so they might as well get a hint of it before-hand. In my own case the first time I met Mr. Darcy was here at Stradbroke with my face bare as was his and if I could meet him thus before the vicar I would, but I think the lightest layer of paint a good compromise, and Lady Ellen and I had been long agreed about keeping our hair simple so we would not need to worry about preserving it on our wedding nights._

"' _Tis a quarter hour, now, until we shall be married. A quarter hour until I am Lady Anne Darcy. I am wearing my polonaise dress, for it is my favourite and Lady Ellen says a woman of my size looks best in such a dress for it gives me more volume and I am one of few who need it. I had not thought myself to be so small but everyone says such similar things about me, although no-one so elegantly as Lady Ellen._

" _Mama wanted me to wear pearls in my hair but I asked for rosebuds instead and so there are pretty yellow rosebuds, which go nicely with grandmother's topaz set, which I have borrowed again. I chose to wear but one patch – a heart – and considered placing it at the corner of my mouth, but did not have quite so much gumption for that and have done the eye instead._

" _I think they will be calling for me soon. I find myself more nervous than happy at present. I will be relieved when all is done and I am finally Lady Anne Darcy._

" _August 18, 1779_

" _I have only a little time before dinner but I wanted to write a little something of how wonderfully happy I am. George, O, my wonderful George, and how happy I am to call him thus now, to be intimate with him in every way a wife can be, is surely the kindest and most patient man that ever was. If I could but be held by him forever and taste a thousand of his kisses! I must capture his words although I know not how I could ever forget them – 'O, my loveliest Anne, how I have longed for this day' as he clasped me to him and kissed me and made my knees so weak I thought I might swoon. When he caressed my damp, plaited hair and ran his fingers down my nightgown and said 'I have seen you without paint or powder, may I now see you in nothing, dear Anne?' I was so discomfited to remove it but when I did he said"_

Just as Elizabeth was determining she should read no more, for it seemed very likely that Anne was going to describe her wedding night in far greater detail than a daughter-in-law ought to read, the entry stopped, and different handwriting could be seen below:

" _I have startled my poor, dear wife and made her confess to the keeping of a journal, which I find to be a very fine thing. I promise I shall never again breach its pages and have read not a word. I wanted merely to record for posterity that I have married the sweetest, loveliest creature in all the world. G.D."_

Elizabeth smiled deeply, to be presented with the evidence of such a sweet love as these Darcys had shared. She thought back to the portrait in the gallery, the young couple with the inscrutable countenances, their faces covered in paint and powder and their bodies in clothes of the old fashion. There was nothing to even hint at the deep love they shared below the surface. "Clearly, it runs in the family," she murmured, and then decided she would read a few more entries before going to see the children and then down to breakfast, for she was eager to read of Lady Anne's reaction to Pemberley.

" _August 21, 1779_

" _O, how angry I am at papa! How could he raise such subjects, and at the dinner-table! It seems this morning he attempted to convince Lord Lynton to part with some of Lady Ellen's inheritance, even before his own death. I do not know how papa can do so without shame, but I suppose a man moves past shame when he encumbers himself as much as papa has._

" _Lord Lynton was very firm in indicating that Lady Ellen would receive no more than her existing pin money from him (I expect this is still very generous tho) before his death. Then, and I believe this was a surprise to papa, Lord Lynton indicated that should his death come before papa's, Lady Ellen's fortune will be held in trust until Andrew accedes to the earldom – without saying it, giving papa to understand that he will never benefit from Lady Ellen's money. I can see Andrew readily agreeing to this as they negotiated the marriage contract – I half suspect he instigated it – but oh how angry it made papa. I am only glad my Darcy parents have already departed for Pemberley so they were not exposed to such a scene. I feel guilty, that I shall leave tomorrow myself, that George shall rescue me and take me away to Pemberley just as I once wished for him to do. Were it not for Andrew and Ellen (I suppose I can call her thus here, as I do when it is just the two of us – Cathy won't stand for such informality with someone so new to the family) I would not feel so guilty, but there are now two people dear to my heart at Stradbroke, and I wish they did not have to suffer this. I expect they may spend more of their early married life in Cornwall than they might have originally planned. For myself I have only lovely things to anticipate – some four or five days on the road with none but my George in the Darcy post-chaise and then to finally see the estate he says such lovely things about, the estate I shall be mistress of someday, but hopefully not too soon, for I want neither the responsibility nor to supplant my very kind new mother._

" _August 31, 1779_

" _I cannot believe I shall get to live in such a place as Pemberley, that it shall be my home. I have not the time to recount each room at present, for I do not wish to keep my George waiting, but there was not a room I saw that was at all outdated or less than what it ought to be, and the state rooms were some of the prettiest I have ever seen._

" _The grounds are nice as well, although the formal gardens are rather dull. Then again, I suppose if we were to bring in some landscape gardener, he would just wish to take out the formal gardens and have more parkland with perhaps some picturesque new ruins. Mr. Gilpin has his place I am sure, but sometimes it is nice to just walk among some pretty flowers._

" _George and I have a very fine apartment at the back of the house that shall suit us just perfectly. My bedchamber is done up in green and pink, with the dressing room a darker green, and light green panelling for them both. George is here now, so I shall write more in the coming days._

" _September 1, 1779_

" _It has been an exhausting day, but generally a good one. Mrs. Darcy wished to take me around the neighbourhood to introduce me to the principal ladies there, and to invite them to dinner. I gather she is a bit proud of having an earl's daughter in the family – this is a neighbourhood composed entirely of gentry and she certainly put emphasis on the Lady part of my name as she introduced me._

" _Some were very kind and others more reserved. I think I liked Mrs. Charlotte Sinclair most, for she said such nice things to me, particularly that she hoped we would be good friends, being so near in age. Her husband, Mr. Sinclair, has already inherited their estate, Berewick – he did so even before he reached his majority, she said. Her kindness notwithstanding, the whole morning was very trying for me, to meet so many new acquaintances, and so I was ever grateful when we returned home and my dear George said I should have a cup of tea and then go driving with him about the park. We had tea together and then walked to the stables, where he surprised me by showing me a new landau that had been purchased just for me. I thought it perfect for calls around the neighbourhood and I was glad his mother had not usurped him in the surprise as we had taken the closed coach for our calls. But then after I had looked it over, he asked whether I would rather go about in it, with the coachman to drive us, or in an older curricle that he would drive with just the two of us. I was quite torn for I did not wish to slight such a fine present, but I told him I would rather it be just the two of us, regardless of the equipage, and he – my dearest, darling George! – said he had hoped that was what I would say. So we went about in the curricle – the park is a full ten miles around – and he told me about the history of the estate._

" _After the Norman Conquest much of the land in the neighbourhood had belonged to the Deveraux family, the Barons de Kympton. The D'Arcys – spelled in the French manner, at that time – had been a gentry family in service to the Baron. When the last Baron had died without issue, the land had reverted to the Crown and the King had seen fit to redistribute it among the gentry, with the D'Arcys getting a larger share of the land because the King had looked most favourably on them. Not favourably enough to ennoble them, but the rights of lord of the manor had at least passed to them. The Baron's castle had been kept for use by the Crown until the Civil War when it was heavily damaged and then pulled down, so there was nothing to see of it – perhaps this is why George enjoyed Stradbroke so – but he did show me the ruins of the old medieval home of the D'Arcys. He also stopped to steal innumerable kisses from me, but I adored him for his larceny."_

* * *

A note in Abigail's wispy hand was delivered at breakfast, indicating she was well enough for callers, and so Elizabeth went to call on all of the Sinclair women. She went to Fitzwilliam House first, finding Mrs. Sinclair and Clarissa still living their quiet life of mourning, and glad to see their friend. Abigail Sinclair was, as Elizabeth had expected, of quite different demeanour. Elizabeth had called on Berewick second in the hopes that Laurence Sinclair would have gone out by the time she arrived, and was grateful to see her hopes met. Yet Abigail seemed even more timid than usual, as though his spectre still haunted the house.

Elizabeth proposed they have a walk in the gardens, wondering if perhaps some of the servants had been directed to spy on their mistress, but once there Abigail seemed no less reticent, and finally Elizabeth decided she must confront things directly.

"Abigail, I saw you in the window, when last I called. I saw your face."

"Please, Elizabeth, I don't wish to speak of it," pleaded Abigail. "It will just make things worse if he learns I spoke of it to you."

"But if you are not safe – "

"Please!" Somehow Abigail's tremulous whisper was more striking to Elizabeth than if she would have shouted the word, and Elizabeth remained silent as Abigail continued: "I made a mistake, a blunder. I will not do it again, and all will be well."

Elizabeth was exceedingly dubious of this statement, but followed Abigail's wishes that she say no more. Instead, she took her friend's hand and squeezed it, and asked if she would like to go riding tomorrow. Tearily, Abigail said she would.

As she rode Flora back towards Pemberley, Elizabeth contemplated Abigail, and saw in her friend a similarity to Lady Anne Darcy, both of them shy, quiet women with good hearts. Lady Anne, though, had married the best of men, someone who had promised to protect her, to allow her to bloom, and poor Abigail had married the worst. The thought of the years of fear and misery her friend must face brought tears to Elizabeth's eyes, and it was not the breeze that made them spill over.

It was a comfort, to go and see the children in the nursery – the older boys all eager in their studies – and then to return to the secret room and more of Lady Anne's entries, as the young woman met more of the neighbourhood and accompanied Mrs. Darcy to give alms to the poor, all the while looking toward the coming dinner with nervous anticipation. Lady Anne would wear her best dress, the polonaise she loved so well, and some of her new mother-in-law's jewellery, with a hairdresser brought in from Derby to do her hair. Reading of the latter made Elizabeth grateful that the styles had changed – and Sarah's skill was so extensive – that she needed no such arrangements. She read the final lines of trepidation from Lady Anne, and then:

" _September 4, 1779_

" _Dinner is over, at least. Without the knowledge that George was to take me to bed and soothe me after it was over, I am not sure that I would have endured it._

" _How awful it was, to be the centre of attention. How mislead I was, by Charlotte Sinclair! I try to remind myself that things were so much worse at Stradbroke, that at least I have George's love, but my spirits are so very low tonight._

" _September 5, 1779_

" _How can I go from such agony to such happiness? It is down to George, of course, that dearest man of my heart. He saw how upset I was last night and asked what had distressed me so. I told him of how stupid I had been, to not realise how much I would be the centre of attention, to not even understand that I should go first until that moment when his father had offered me his arm and I had realised that not only was I a new bride but that I would always go first, for I outranked every other lady of the neighbourhood. And how that would not have been so awful had I not overheard Mrs. Sinclair speaking to Miss Houlton in the drawing-room and saying she had expected more in jewels and dress from the daughter of an Earl and she was beginning to wonder if it was worth cultivating the connexion with such a quiet mouse as me for perhaps the rumours were true and I would not be able to introduce her into superior society in town, for my father's debts had ruined my own connexions._

" _George said that due to his longer acquaintance with her, he had seen her to be a reaching woman, and wished he had warned me of her. He said the Darcy family jewels could be reset to better suit my stature and I should be fitted for as many new dresses as I pleased, although he feared only a town modiste would suit and he had begun to think that perhaps we should go in the opposite direction from town. This quite perplexed me at first but then he explained that for some years his family had enjoyed travelling to the Lakes when they could not travel farther afield, and they held the lease on a house there. I was not to expect much in the way of decor, for in truth it was a farm-house made redundant by the consolidation of two farms, but I told him very truthfully – indeed with all my heart – that so long as we were preserved from the basest wants I should gladly live alone with him in a little cottage, still less a farm-house. He said we could not be entirely alone, for he would not see his Anne cooking or cleaning, but that we could live very simply there, with no other society but our own and all the beauty of the Lakes to enjoy. He apologised that he had not thought of it earlier, for he saw now that we should have had more time to ourselves at the beginning of our marriage, than 5 nights in coaching inns._

" _So we are to spend another week here and then set out for the Lakes, and if we wish to spend some months there we may, for there is nothing requiring us here before Christmas. But George says if I find myself missing more luxurious comforts we may return sooner – whatever I wish. I do not think I deserve him, dearest man."_

Elizabeth had always suspected that the old Mr. Sinclair's wife had been a vain, reaching woman, and now had Lady Anne's words as proof of this. Perhaps it was inevitable that Laurence Sinclair had turned out so poorly, she thought, with such a mother. Reared on poison by her and spoiled by his father as the first-born son, it would have been miraculous for him to become otherwise than what he was. Darcy had vowed that none of their sons would be allowed idleness, including James, and for this Elizabeth was grateful. Yes, the Darcy children would never want for anything their little imaginations could conjure and might therefore be spoiled, but they would also learn responsibility and duty. Elizabeth continued reading of Anne's eager anticipation to go to the Lakes, and then:

" _September 14, 1779_

" _O! How I adore the Lakes! I had enjoyed the beauty of what I have seen of the Peaks, but the vistas here feature both Peaks and Lakes which makes them particularly delightful, and still more is our situation. Perhaps it is a farm-house in status, but I should prefer to call our dwelling a cottage, for that is its size to my mind, and it is everything quaint and rustic. Such a thing might be strange for me to say after loathing Stradbroke for so long, but somehow it is different. The cottage is filled up with various pieces of furniture that seem to have outworn their need at Pemberley and yet most of them are still newer than what can be found in the best rooms of Stradbroke. Still more, I think I could more easily sleep in the oldest, creakiest bed in the world, so long as George was there to love me as a husband does. What we lack in luxury and modernity we surely make up for in intimacy. There is but a husband and wife who have had management of the house for some years, and a local girl who lives in the nearby village, Near Sawrey, and helps with the cleaning and laundry. Given the state of the house, I cannot say more is needed for our comfort._

" _We arrived this morning, and a spate of rain prevented any further exploration beyond a quick walk down to the nearby tarn – that is what they call a little lake, here – but I cannot say I regret the rain. Further exploration shall come in time, I am sure, but I cannot say I shall enjoy it substantially more than an evening curled up with my George before a peat fire, for that is what I have to anticipate."_

The Darcys did go out walking in the following days, each walk described by Anne in expressions of effusive happiness and adoration of her husband, the only entry different from this sea of happy sameness one from later in September:

" _September 23, 1779_

" _George and mama Darcy have contrived the finest surprise for me, for this afternoon a great parcel of fabric swatches arrived, from town. I am to choose my favourites – and George says as many favourites as I like – to have made into dresses. Mama Darcy writes that she has just had a dress done by a new French mantua-maker in Derby and found her skills to be comparable to those in town. We are to stop there on our return from the Lakes so I can be fitted for new dresses. It is so strange to speak of new dresses without concern for the cost._

" _This morning was quite lovely. George and I walked back out to Moss Eccles and had a little picnic there, and then walked on up the hill a little way to enjoy the greater vista. After the sameness of Norfolk I think I am very blessed to have a honeymoon here and the promise of returning to my new home in the Peaks. There is such majesty, such beauty here. George says he still adores them, even after having spent so much more time in both places than I have. I think eagerly of the days when it will be more than just the two of us, when we shall have the joys of bringing our family here."_

Did the Darcys ever bring their family to the Lakes? Elizabeth's husband had never mentioned it, and when they were seated for a quiet little dinner within their private sitting-room, she asked him of it.

"We did go to the Lakes," said he, smiling fondly. "Often just the three of us until Georgiana was born, although sometimes the Fitzwilliams came with us. Some of my favourite memories from childhood are from the Lakes."

"I am surprised you have never spoken of it, then."

He sighed. "We stopped going, after my mother died. I suppose the lease on the house lapsed – I have received no correspondence regarding it, since my father passed."

"It must have reminded him of her, very much – I can see that it would have been painful for him to return. They spent their first months after marriage there, but she was already anticipating going there with her children."

They ate silently for a little while, until Elizabeth asked how his day had been.

"Good, generally. I called on Houlton, and he remains against the enclosure of the common. It is excellent of him – it would be easy for a man with Houlton's debts to drift from his scruples."

"I am glad of it. Between the two of you, I should hope this can be easily enough quashed."

"I share your hope, and I intend to write to Lord Brandon to see if he may assist. I wish Georgiana's uncle was still here in England, for his political connexions are broader, but I hope Lord Brandon's will be sufficient," said he. "And how was your day?"

Elizabeth sighed. "I fear my own troubles regarding Laurence Sinclair will not be so easily resolved. He beats his wife – he has done so on two occasions that I know of. I do not know what to do for her."

"Continue to offer your friendship," Darcy said, reaching over to clasp her hand. "I wish it were otherwise, but I fear that is all we can do."

When the meal was finished, the Darcys went up to the nursery to see the children while everything was cleared away, and then they returned to the sitting room for an evening of quiet reading, Darcy with Keats, a favourite of his, and Elizabeth with his mother's journal.

" _November 12, 1779_

" _The weather here grows worse, and although I quite enjoy my days spent snuggled under wool blankets with a cup of tea and of course George, he begins to speak of setting a date for our return to Pemberley via Derby. We are in no hurry, but will wish to be back before Christmas."_

* * *

Morning calls; time spent with the children, both in the nursery and on family rides on horseback; another horseback ride with Abigail Sinclair, that lady in seeingingly better spirits; quiet dinners by themselves and a few pleasantly conversable ones with Miss Fischer; evenings reading. This was how the Darcys spent the following week, as a year passed in Lady Anne's life. Her new dresses were completed, the jewels were reset, and yet still she struggled with being the centre of attention, and struggled still more with the old Mr. Darcy's sternness. She wrote of the Gordon Riots, grateful that no-one she knew had been harmed by them, and distressed that people would do each other injury when, whether Protestant or Catholic, they all did worship God. And then a more interesting entry, for Elizabeth had been expecting the younger Andrew Fitzwilliam was soon to appear:

" _November 29,1780_

_I had a letter from Ellen today to say that she is with child. I am trying very hard not to lapse into my old jealousy of her, for I do love her as a sister, but when it comes to conceiving children to further fill our hearts, and heirs to continue our husbands' legacies, I will admit that I had hoped we would proceed at a similar pace. And yet even this is unfair, for Ellen must bear a male heir to continue the Earldom, while Pemberley is unentailed and so a child of any gender could follow George, although of course a boy would be preferred."_

Lady Ellen's pregnancy proceeded, as did poor Anne's fretfulness, until finally it came time to travel to Stradbroke for the birth, poor Anne eager to see Ellen and Andrew, but not Lady Catherine or her father, whose health she had reason to believe was worsening.

" _May 31, 1781_

" _Is it wrong that I am ashamed to be returned to this house – this castle – if one can be brought to call it thus? I am not happy to be at Stradbroke when I had been feeling myself more comfortable in the society at Pemberley. Here society revolves around poor Ellen and her soon-to-be-child. I hope that someday I shall be provided with such care, but with less enthusiasm than has been shown to my sister, for she looks weary with the attention._

" _Cathy, of course, has not shown the same enthusiasm. She mostly just glowers when mama or grandmother are in the room, but if they are absent, she often snipes at Ellen, and even more so at me. She does not like any of my new dresses or jewels – or so she says. I believe she is just jealous. She has been good about keeping papa occupied, tho, and has organized games of penny Whist and even Pharo in the evenings, which she says satisfies papa's enjoyment of gambling but at comparably little cost – and at least the money stays within the family. I am not sure if we shall continue with it once Lord Lynton arrives, tho, for I think he is bound to find it strange. He is due to reach Stradbroke in three or four days, and I think he could not leave it for later if he wants to arrive before his grandchild, for Ellen is very large and she says she thinks it cannot be long now, an opinion in which grandmother concurs. Grandmother is usually right about such things._

" _June 5, 1781_

" _Last night was awful. Papa had far too much brandy – we were playing penny Whist again – and he began speaking of going to Epsom for the races._

" _We were all horrified, that he should speak of it, and when Andrew said if papa went he would only put the estate further in debt, papa said he was tired of being hemmed in at Stradbroke and that he was the head of his family and could go to Epsom if he felt like it, and anyway he was overdue to win. 'Have you no shame!" cried poor Andrew, for he and we all know that papa is never due to win – his luck is abominable. I was very worried, for although it no longer affects me so far as fortune is concerned, it would still affect those I care about, and I got a very bad head-ache. George took me up to bed and I took a little laudanum and had a very good sleep, so at least I am feeling better this morning. Dear George is such a comfort to me, and this would all be so much more difficult to bear without him by my side. I love him so much sometimes I think my heart could burst just to think of living without him._

" _June 6, 1781_

" _I hardly know where to start except to say papa is dead, or really I should say he was killed. Beyond that I think I must go from the beginning. We played penny Whist again last night, and all of the gentlemen partook too much of the brandy decanter. Cathy encouraged them – I thought nothing strange of it for she has done the same since we arrived at Stradbroke, always going to fetch papa another brandy, and pouring one out for any of the other gentlemen who wished for it. Papa seemed a bit abashed by the argument and spoke little, except as required by the game. I was hoping he had changed his mind about going to the races. He won, for once, but still called for Cathy to bring him another brandy. We all moved to sit in the chairs and settles by the fireplace. Papa fell asleep almost immediately in his chair, and as George was out of brandy, he picked up papa's glass of brandy and was about to pour it into his own when Cathy said she would pour him a new one and made to take his glass, but he said papa had not even touched this one and there was no reason to waste French brandy. Cathy muttered that only a commoner would do such a thing, and George just shrugged and poured the brandy. George and Andrew finished their brandies and we all went up after that – save Ellen, whom Andrew had taken up much earlier. Papa was still asleep, so Cathy covered him with a blanket and left him there. I remember thinking that she had been very kind to be taking such care of him as she had been for the past few days._

" _George was still fast asleep when I awoke in the morning – so strange for him, but I thought little of it since he had drank more brandy than usual last night. So I rang for Byers and she helped me dress, then I went down to breakfast. Byers must not have had the news yet, for as soon as I entered the great hall Albey told me that my father had died in his sleep. I was too shocked to cry for some time, nor even to speak. Eventually I asked where my mother was and he said in the sitting room, where papa had passed, so that I came to understand he had died in the chair where he had fallen asleep last night. I went in and found mama and grandmother sitting by his body, which had been put on the settle bench, there being no other space better in the room for him to be laid out. Neither of them were crying. 'O Anne, he is at peace now,' said mama. Grandmother said nothing and mostly looked relieved, which, I am ashamed to say, was also my sentiment at the time. I sat with them for a time, and perhaps it was their lack of emotions which eventually drew me into tears. I cannot say they were specifically in mourning for papa – more in distress over what had happened and guilt over my own relief. I cried myself into a head-ache, and grandmother encouraged me to go upstairs and rest. I went to the cabinet to get some laudanum, and was surprised to find the bottle near-empty, when it had been nearly full when George had brought it to me the night before last. I wondered how we could have gone through so much in such a short time, and it was not long before I began to suspect what had happened, recalling Cathy's eagerness to give papa brandy and now seeing the absence of a great deal of laudanum tincture in spirits of brandy._

" _Cathy came in then, and must have seen that I knew, for she said 'don't look so shocked, Anne. It needed to be done.' I protested to her that it was murder. She said she had done what needed to be done for the sake of the family, what Andrew had not the courage to do, although we'd all heard papa speaking of going to Epsom. That could be no reason for patricide, I argued, but she merely stated again that she had done what needed to be done, and anyway it was not as tho she had stabbed or shot papa – merely handed him glasses of something he had willingly drank himself."_

Elizabeth rose abruptly from the sofa, dropping the journal on the cushion. "Oh God, oh dear God."

"Elizabeth? My love, what is it? You look terribly pale." Darcy rose and drew his arm about her, looking at her as though she might faint – a concern that was not entirely unfounded.

"Lady Catherine, she – she – " he was gazing at her in wretched suspense, and yet still she struggled to say it aloud " – she murdered her father, the previous Lord Brandon."

"Good God!" he exclaimed.

Elizabeth could not bring herself to speak of it, and so she picked up the journal and found the entry for the sixth of June, handing it over to him to read. She sat back down on the sofa, her mind roiling. Darcy read silently for some time, and then slipped the journal back into her hand before he crossed the room to the brandy decanter, poured out two large measures, and returned, handing one to Elizabeth.

He sat beside her and gulped at his brandy. "My aunt is a murderess."

"My God, Darcy, I am sorry I ever embarked on reading these journals. I had no idea I would learn of such a secret."

"Do not be, Elizabeth. She was no more or less a murderess before you found that room. The only difference is now we know."

"What do we do, now that we know?" Elizabeth whispered.

"The same as the previous generation, I fear. My mother told her brother, at the very least."

"I had not read that far," said Elizabeth, picking up the journal to find the place where she had stopped reading.

" _I thought then of George, of how he must have drank a glass full of laudanum and that was the cause of his deep sleep that morning. I went to turn, to run back and check on him, but Cathy grabbed my arm and said I could tell no one – not even within the family. I said I would promise no such thing and wrenched my arm away. Her response was to strike me, but I was so angry at the thought that she might have harmed George and would not let me see him that I struck her right back and ran off, back to our bed-chamber. George was still asleep and I roused him in great distress, and was very relieved when he asked me what the matter was and seemed well, if still very sleepy. I told him everything, and he was as shocked as I was. He said he would dress as quickly as he could and then we would speak to Andrew._

" _I went to go find Andrew and learned he had been fetching Mr. Finchling to do his duty as Coroner. Mr. Finchling was speaking to Andrew and mama and grandmother in the sitting-room and saying that at papa's age and in his state of health it was not uncommon to die in one's sleep and at least it must have been peaceful._

" _It was some time before I could get Andrew alone without rousing any suspicion. I made to take him upstairs to talk, but George was coming down the steps and suggested we go take some air in the gardens. We walked thither and I told him all I knew – poor Andrew, he was terribly shocked and grieved, particularly because like all of us, he had been relieved to know papa could cause no more harm._

" _We had, then, to consider that most awful decision, whether we would report what we had seen and heard to the nearest magistrate, which was Sir George Harris now that papa was dead. We came around to it slowly, for it is not an easy thing to agree to cover up a murder, but eventually we agreed it must be done. Cathy's actions were abhorrent, but to see her arrested for them would only cause further ruin for the family, and would ruin those who were entirely innocent of the crime, including Andrew and Ellen's unborn child. Cathy came out as we were deciding upon this, and she came after me, shrieking that I had told on her and I was a dirty little rat. I think she would have hit me again, but George stepped between us and Andrew grasped her arm and spun her around to face him._

" _He said he knew what she had done and abhorred it, but we would all never speak of it so long as he could be rid of her. He said he would send her with grandmother to town and she could go into half-mourning before the season started, for she had one more season to make a match – if she did not he would find a companion for her and send her to a cottage in the north, or perhaps somewhere even farther away. He understood there were a great many gentlemen seeking wives in India, he said to her. O! how she screamed at him! She said he was an ingrate when she had acted on behalf of the family and given him the power he had wanted. He said he had never wanted it at the cost of murder, and she called him a coward and spat in his face. How, O how can such a person be my own flesh and blood?_

_Andrew merely asked coldly if she had understood what he had said, and she said yes. He released her arm and bade her to leave but instead she shouted 'rat!' and made as tho to attack me again. This time it was George who caught her arm, and he said if ever harm befell me at her hand again, he would see her burn. He said it so sternly and yet so feelingly, that none of us had doubt of his sincerity, and Cathy said no more, merely stalking back into the house._

" _We were silent for a while after such a scene, but eventually Andrew said he did not wish to tell Ellen on that day. He would not have it be a secret from her forever, but her condition was in such a delicate place that he loathed the thought of even informing her of papa's death, still less of this. Poor Andrew sat down on a bench and laid his head in his hand. He said he would have to live for the rest of his life with the knowledge that he had gained his Earldom through deceit and murder. I protested that it had been Cathy who had done it, not him, but he said that could not matter when his relief at his father's death – his father's murder – to a certain extent condoned what she had done. I protested that relief that he had died in his sleep was not the same as relief that he had been killed with too much laudanum that he had thought to be brandy. Yet it was George who made the more effective argument. He said nothing could change what had happened, but he expected there were hundreds who owed their livelihoods to the Stradbroke estate, and what Andrew could do now was focus on improving their lot, on shoring up the estate so that it would thrive for future generations – not only his own children, but theirs. I wish I could remember his precise words, for his speech moved me as much as it did Andrew, but in truth I think it was the sentiment of it that made his speech so beautiful – that and his fine mouth as he spoke, which I wanted very much to kiss, so overwhelmed with emotion was I. But I shall kiss him later, I am sure, and take refuge from this awful day in his arms._

" _June 5, 1781_

" _Mr. Finchling named papa's death natural, although he told Andrew that nature had been accelerated by too much brandy and hard living. So we have been given leave to bury papa._

" _Poor Ellen has begun her confinement amidst all of this, for the midwife says it shall be any day now. Andrew asked me to keep her company while they made plans for papa's funeral, which I was very glad to do until Cathy came in and seated herself as well. She glared at me but said nothing, and then endeavoured to make conversation with Ellen – I think she was seeking to ingratiate herself with the one member of our generation who does not know what she has done, although I am sure Ellen will judge her as well, once she knows._

" _I endeavoured to join in, for Ellen's sake, and made the mistake of calling her Lady Ellen. I apologised, for of course she is Lady Brandon now – where once we were near equals, she is now a countess, and I shall always be the daughter of an Earl and no more. But she smiled very warmly at me and said she thought she could remain Lady Ellen among family. It was tremendously kind of her, and it certainly made Cathy's countenance less sour than it could have been. I am sure she was thinking the same thing about rank, and also that her thoughts were far more bitter than mine. Indeed when she finally left us and I thanked Ellen for doing something – in truth, making a sacrifice – that would make Cathy easier to deal with, she clasped my hand and said 'I did not do it for her, dear sister. You and I both married for love, and in that we are equals.' O! I do not deserve such a friend! I pray for her, for what she is about to endure. I care not about the Earldom – I just hope Ellen comes through and is well, and has a healthy child._

" _June 15, 1781_

" _Ellen has had her child, a son, and both of them are well, God be blessed. He is to be called Andrew, although at present I cannot say he looks much like his namesake, for he looks more like a squinty little pink creature than anything else. Grandmother says they all look like that when they come out, tho, that the coming days will see him to a more adorable countenance, and that I won't feel that way about my own baby whenever that time comes. Cathy said it didn't matter much what it looked like as long as it had fingers and toes enough, and was a boy, to continue the Earldom. This was of course not received well by those of us who knew she had precipitated the urgent need for an heir to Andrew, but as the others were in the room we could not say anything._

" _June 17, 1781_

_Ellen must now know of what Cathy did, for when I came into her room this morning she was telling Andrew that she would not have her near the baby, and it was plain by her who she meant. Andrew said he would send her to town with grandmother as soon as it could be arranged._

" _In truth I do not think Cathy poses any threat to the child, for there is no benefit to her if the baby comes to harm. The same applies to grandmother, whose jointure will be lost to us once she passes. Yet I cannot fault Ellen for such sentiments._

" _Lord Lynton and Andrew have been in what is now Andrew's study much of the time, going through papa's papers and attempting to make sense of them. Andrew gave me to understand that Lord Lynton intends to release some of Ellen's dowry to her now, as much as is needed to see the estate clear of debt. So I presume they are endeavouring to understand the sum it shall take to do so. I do not think Lord Lynton knows about papa's death. This must be our generation's secret to keep, I think."_

"It appears Lady Ellen knew as well – Lord Brandon must have told her at some time after she bore Andrew," Elizabeth said.

"Elizabeth, are _you_ comfortable with continuing to keep this a secret?" Darcy asked. "I abhor the thought of it, but I fear it is my instinct to do so."

"I fear it is mine, as well, and for the same reasons they chose to do so – for the innocents that would be harmed. The Smiths, the Fitzwilliams, all of our own children, they would harmed, perhaps irreparably, if Lady Catherine were to be prosecuted now. I am not even sure she could be prosecuted – the only evidence at this point is your mother's written suspicions. I do not think Lord Brandon would testify willingly after all these years."

He nodded. "I have thought, periodically, of encouraging Anne to heal the breach with her mother. I am glad I did not. I shall never sympathize with Lady Catherine again, and I am glad at least that she is already estranged from us all. We should tell Anne, at least. She deserves to know."

"I agree."

They were avoiding the most difficult topic, Elizabeth knew, the one Lord Brandon had likely wrestled with since he had become Lord Brandon: Lady Catherine's actions, however abhorrent, might well have saved the earldom from disgrace. New debts might have crippled Stradbroke so substantially that even Lady Ellen's fortune could not save it. Further years of dissipation by the old Lord Brandon might have harmed the family's reputation so severely that it could not be recovered by the next generation. Yet to raise such a subject might prompt the resurrection of other things, and she did not wish to do so. It was possible Darcy was thinking of them as well, but they did not need to speak of it.

He did resurrect those old topics, though, once they were lying in his bed, drawing her close to him and saying, "Elizabeth, that first time I proposed to you, when I was so puffed up with arrogance and pride, I insulted your family for their behaviour, and all the while that pride I took in my own position was based in large part on my relation to an earldom resurrected by a murder, an act done by an aunt completely lacking in morals, and I – "

Elizabeth laid her finger upon his lips. "Shh, my love. I was afraid we might find ourselves revisiting that time, but I do not want to. Nothing we have learned changes your _second_ proposal, nor the man you have become."

"Thank God you feel it does not, but Elizabeth, you must know – it is very important that you know – that I value morals over behaviour. In many cases, they go together, but such innocent silliness as your sisters showed, and as I judged your family for – it is nothing, when considered against the weightier transgressions my aunt committed."

"Lydia's transgressions were not entirely innocent."

"Nor were Georgiana's, but they were both too young to understand fully what they were about, and sadly Lydia has paid far more penance," he said.

"You did offer to bring her home, away from him," Elizabeth sighed. "She wanted to marry him, and she got what she wanted."

"She was too young and too foolish to _know_ , though, and I judged her for it, never knowing that my own aunt had fed her father glass after glass of laudanum, knowing it would kill him. She was not _that_ much older than Lydia, but clearly far more calculating, far more cold."

"Lady Catherine _is_ singular," Elizabeth said. "Yet we cannot dwell on her, or what she did. If we are to keep silent on the matter, we must put it behind us, the same as your parents and Lord and Lady Brandon did. And _you_ must not dwell on what you said on that awful day, nor must I. Your family is mine now, and mine yours, and _our_ family – our sons, and you – will always be most important to me."

"Thank God for them, and most particularly for you," he whispered, pulling her closer.


	29. Part 1, Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With two children ten years apart, it's natural that Lady Anne's story would contain difficult elements regarding children. Readers should be aware that this starts within this chapter and includes miscarriage, stillbirth, and child death.

**Chapter 29**

After the revelations regarding Lady Catherine's actions, Elizabeth was reluctant to return to the journals the next day. Eventually, however, she began to reconcile herself to the notion that there could hardly be a _worse_ event than what she had already read, and following another quiet dinner in the Darcys's sitting-room, she picked up the journal. Lady Anne was still troubled by what had happened, but it appeared that by the time the Darcys returned to Pemberley, it pressed less upon her mind.

" _June 30, 1781_

" _Back at Pemberley, and mostly grateful to be here. There is something I adore about travelling with George, just the two of us. Yet it is nice to be back in a finer space than the coaching inns of our journey, and I am ever so grateful to be putting the events at Stradbroke behind us, to be here at Pemberley with my new family, my honourable family._

" _I just wish George's father was kinder towards me. It is not that he has been cruel, of course. He is just very stern – proper in his manners, but not kind. George says Mr. Darcy does like me, he is just a man not much given toward outward affections. Still, I do wonder sometimes if he would rather George had married someone with a larger dowry instead of me, or perhaps he wanted a woman who was less shy for his son."_

Lady Anne was not troubled by her father-in-law for long, Elizabeth read, for once again George Darcy proposed they go to the Lakes, just the two of them. Although not usually one to write of such mundane details as packing, this time Lady Anne did note she was bringing _Sir Charles Grandison_ so as to read it again. It had always been a favourite of hers but was now even more beloved, for the titular Sir Charles reminded Anne of her husband.

" _July 7, 1781_

" _I no longer have reason to be jealous of Lady Ellen, for it has been long enough now without my courses coming that I can safely say I am with child, finally! George and I are to go for a walk around the grounds this afternoon, and I shall tell him then._

" _O! How happy George was when I told him. My Dear Heart did not want to say anything of it, for he did not want me to feel pressured to bear a child, but he has been longing for one every bit as much as I, and he is overjoyed that now we shall have one. I hope it is a boy, to grow up to be like his father, a boy to be an heir to Pemberley, but I would be very happy with a girl, too, a dear little girl."_

Elizabeth read this entry with a sinking feeling in her stomach, for her husband had been born in 1784, and yet she realised she would need to grow accustomed to reading of miscarriage and perhaps even stillbirth. It could not be otherwise, within the journal of a woman who had borne two children with more than ten years between them. She read on, and the younger Darcys returned to Pemberley, where even Mr. Darcy seemed very pleased with the news, while Mrs. Darcy responded with the warmth of a future grandmother. Elizabeth read of Lady Anne's happiness, her hopes for her child, and then, simply written in a tremulous hand:

" _August 21, 1781"_

" _The child is lost. My heart is broken."_

There were no more entries until the 27th, which read:

" _August 27, 1781_

" _Were it not for George, I am not sure I would have survived this loss. He is truly the kindest, dearest man, and reminds me whenever I am low – which is still most of the time – that if I can become pregnant, we can hope that in the future I will carry another child to birth. Still, tho, my heart aches for this one, this child we might have held, and raised, and loved._

" _He is going to take me back to the Lakes, where we can mourn our loss quietly."_

The entries were sparse, during their time in the Lake District, until yet another that made Elizabeth's stomach sink.

" _October 25, 1781_

" _I believe I am with child again. I am afraid to hope, but I do pray that I shall not lose this baby. I shall tell George soon, but I know it will not be such a joyous moment as it was before."_

Silently, Elizabeth closed the journal, and murmured to her husband that she intended to go up to the nursery. It was earlier than she usually went up – better than an hour before Charles's evening feeding – but he accepted this without question and said he would follow her up soon. She climbed the stairs with heavy steps, and paused in her disquieted state in the doorway to the nursery, gazing at the children. It had taken Elizabeth much longer than she had expected to become with child, but then she had borne twins, and Charles had followed as soon as could be reasonably expected after James and George. "How have I been so blessed as to have one more child than she ever did, and at my present age?" Elizabeth thought, feeling intensely that she had been blessed, and thinking of her sister Georgiana, who had suffered two miscarriages that Elizabeth was aware of. Yet even Georgiana had already borne a girl and a boy – was already apace with her mother – and Elizabeth thought of Lady Anne with deep sympathy and more than a little trepidation as to what she would read in future journal entries.

What Elizabeth read, however, was not what she had expected. She had thought this second pregnancy would end in miscarriage, as had the first, but as weeks and months passed in Lady Anne's journal, still she had cause for hope, and after the child quickened, Anne and her husband began to prepare for the birth. Days passed in Elizabeth's life, during this time, and it was on a rainy morning that she finally read:

" _May 30, 1782_

" _We are arrived in London, all of us, and tomorrow I am going to an appointment with one of these man-midwife accoucheurs, Dr. Barrett. I hope he might ease George's worries about my small hips, for I fear otherwise George will fret until it is time for me to give birth. He tries to keep his concern from me, but I can see it come through at times."_

" _May 31, 1782_

" _Dr. Barrett said it was less the size of the hips that caused success in childbirth, and more whether they were malformed or not. He sees no evidence of malformation in me, but said he will not be completely sure until it is time for the birth without a much more invasive examination. I was discomfited enough by the examination he did, even with a monthly nurse present as chaperone, so I said I would rather wait._

" _What he said did seem to calm George's worries, tho, so I am glad of it. Soon enough, I pray, George's worries will be alleviated, and we will have a chance to hold our child._

" _June 3, 1782_

" _I had a letter from Cathy today to inform us she is engaged to Sir Lewis de Bourgh. I believe she had no other options and followed Andrew's ultimatum. I feel badly for Sir Lewis that he was her last choice, and that he marries such a woman, but I suppose since he has wanted to marry her for so long he is himself happy, at least for now._

" _I have been feeling so tired of late, and I suppose I shall continue to feel thus until the baby is born. I can feel the baby move more frequently, now, and it is so wonderful, to know I am carrying life within me, a son or daughter for us to love._

" _June 9, 1782_

" _We have a son! A fine, healthy son! The pain was so awful, but I hardly remember it now, so happy am I. George is quite as over the moon as I am, although he begs me to rest and so I must set this aside soon. We intend to name the baby after him."_

"Oh dear," whispered Elizabeth, who had been certain she was going to read of a stillbirth. Darcy had never mentioned the existence of an older brother to her, although she could not yet be certain the child had lived for any length of time. She read on to learn that little George Darcy had been christened and his mother churched, but almost immediately following this, they had been required to flee to Pemberley for the health of the baby: Mrs. Darcy had fallen ill, and the doctor thought it to be typhoid. Whatever it was, it had ultimately killed her.

" _July 12, 1782_

" _Mrs. Darcy is gone. She passed six days ago, but we only had my father's letter yesterday. Poor George is deeply saddened, and although I did not know her for so long I feel her death deeply as well. She was always so kind to me, so helpful. Her death will leave a hole here at Pemberley that I fear I shall never be able to fill. I am only glad she had a chance to see her grandson before the end. I hope it gave her comfort. I wish I could have been there to help nurse her, and so George and I could say good-bye, but I know we did the right thing in bringing little George away. He is quite healthy and is the dearest little child, and having him here with me has made the pain of our loss so much easier. There is nothing I adore more than to suckle him, to know I give him sustenance as his mother, to hold him close and smell his sweet scent. He is stirring and will wake soon, so I must go."_

After this entry, Elizabeth decided to leave off reading for the rest of the morning. She still had no idea when little George Darcy would die, and reading of one death had already saddened her; she was not ready for a second, still more heart-breaking one. She did, though, ask Darcy of it during dinner that evening, in an exceedingly cautious fashion.

"My love, did you – were you aware – did you know at all of an older brother, of yours?"

He nodded, once. "Yes – George. He lived less than a year."

"I am glad you knew, for it would have been very strange intelligence for me to deliver," Elizabeth said. "Yet you have never mentioned him."

"He was little spoken of, in our family. My father told me of him, once, and occasionally there would be some mention, some indication they were speaking of him, but I believe the wound was always a deep one," Darcy said. "As to my never mentioning him to _you_ – well, I thought the death of an elder son a topic that might be very troubling to you."

"I believe you are right," said Elizabeth, contemplative.

"I fear it shall sound callous to say so, but it had little impact on me – it was not as though he lived and I knew him and then he died and I gained the inheritance. From the moment I entered this world, I was the only living son, and so my expectations were always thus."

What sort of man would he have been, Elizabeth wondered, if his elder brother _had_ lived. It was difficult to imagine, for she had always known him as the master of Pemberley, as the designated custodian for his generation, and his status as such seemed inseparable from his character.

"If he had lived, what would you have done?" she asked. "What profession would you have chosen?"

"I hardly know," he replied, looking thoughtful. "I never had to turn my mind to it, and so I never did. "I could not have liked cultivating so many relationships as are required for success in the law, and nor can I imagine being so decided in my path as to wish to go to sea as young as Matthew did. So I suppose either I would have followed Edward into the army, or gone into the church. I think the latter most likely – it would have allowed me to remain in the country, and I would have had advowsons readily available to me. The livings at Lambton and Kympton are near enough to each other that I might have served both in good conscience, and I think my father would have allowed me to do so. I cannot say I would have liked speaking in front of everyone during services, but I believe I would have found satisfaction in my other duties within the parishes."

"I wonder if we would have met, if you had become a country clergyman. I might still have travelled with my aunt and uncle to Lambton, I suppose, and perhaps become acquainted with you in that way."

"I would hope so. Perhaps if I had been in a humbler position, we might have come to an understanding faster."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps we would not have met at all – we can never know. But we did meet, and even if we took the longer path to an understanding, we did still get there in the end. Which I am glad of: I am awfully fond of Pemberley."

He chuckled and reached over to clasp her hand. "And I am exceedingly fond of its mistress."

* * *

Elizabeth took up the journal the next morning, afraid as she began each entry that tragedy would be within. Yet she found Lady Anne's only concerns were trivial and domestic. The elder Mr. Darcy had returned home with his wife's body and seemed sterner than ever in his grief.

" _September 30, 1782_

" _Mr. Darcy wishes for me to take over the running of the household now that little George is beginning on pap. He says it will be better to start now before we are entertaining, but the thought even of just managing the servants fills me with dread. I do not think Mrs. Harlow likes me – I suspect she compares me to Mrs. Darcy and rightfully finds me wanting."_

Reading this, Elizabeth thought affectionately of Mrs. Reynolds, who had deferred quite readily to a new mistress after so many years of running a house without one, whose worst transgression was a tendency to coddle Mrs. Darcy when she was with child. Lady Anne Darcy had struggled far more with Mrs. Harlow, who seemed constantly dismissive of her new mistress. Matters even reached the point where George Darcy had gone to his father, but Mr. Darcy had been equally dismissive and said the young lady should not be afraid of a housekeeper. Through all of this, little George Darcy was Lady Anne's comfort, her hope, and it broke Elizabeth's heart to read of this. Then, finally:

" _November 28, 1782_

" _It gets so cold here in Derbyshire – I fear I shall never grow used to it. George says there's an outbreak of the measles on the Smith farm – I pray it will all be well._

" _Little George has been rather listless for the past few days. I think he just has another tooth coming in but we sent word to Dr. Pratt in Derby and he is to come tomorrow to have a look at him._

" _I should go and speak to Mrs. Harlow about dinner, but I find it hard to bring myself to do so. She will only talk me out of what I wish to put on the table, so I wonder if it is even worth the effort. When she is constantly saying, 'Well, Mrs. Darcy never…' I wish I was of a different temperament. I ought to be firm or even yell at her like Cathy would, but thinking of Mrs. Darcy just makes me sad, and I am not in spirits for a confrontation. Sometimes I think I should just give Mrs. Harlow leave to run the house as she wishes, for that is what she always does anyway._

" _November 29, 1781_

" _A little bit of George's tooth had broken through this morning and he seems much more his usual self. Dr. Pratt still saw him and said he is a fine, healthy boy._

" _I think I am going to ask Mrs. Harlow to have Cook attend our conference today. She is always saying Cook should not be troubled to learn these new dishes I ask for, but I would like to hear what Cook has to say of it._

" _November 30, 1782_

" _My conversation with Mrs. Harlow and Cook went better than my usual conversations with just Mrs. Harlow. Cook was quite open to trying new dishes, so long as she had a chance to practise them before any big dinners, and it was understood that sometimes they might not come out right and would need to be held back. I told her that I understood, and it was settled. She is to attempt a veal ragout for dinner tonight and roast widgeon and a Solomon's Temple once she has all the ingredients._

" _I was feeling tired after such a conversation, so I went up to see little George. He was still asleep, and so I just sat with him until he woke, enjoying the quiet. When he did wake he wished to cuddle with me. O! my darling boy, what peace you bring me!"_

"Oh, just a tooth," whispered Elizabeth. She recalled that awful night in Margate when she had feared her own George was afflicted with scarlet fever, and it had turned out to be mere teething. Yet her George had lived, and even if it was not the measles to kill this little George Darcy, something – something within a year of his birth – was going to kill him. And after Elizabeth passed through more entries on the detente between Lady Anne, Mrs. Harlow, and her Cook, she had reason to fear it _was_ the measles. She turned the page to find the paper mottled with what she feared were teardrops, and read:

" _December 8, 1782_

" _Little George is a trifle feverish and listless. I hope it is just another tooth coming in. The poor little dear, he bears his discomfort so quietly. A snuggle with me seems to give him so much comfort."_

" _December 9, 1782_

_George's fever is worse. I am so worried for him, my little darling boy."_

Then nothing. Awful, heart-breaking nothing, until another simple entry:

" _December 25, 1782_

" _Christmas. George encouraged me to look toward the future, but he was not very convincing. How can we look to the future when our hearts have been cleaved in two?"_

She wept, upon reading this. Wept for her own first-born son and her own George, and the thought of losing either of them. Wept for little Charles, as well, for the bedside vigil that had ended in relief for her and tragedy for poor Lady Anne. Elizabeth was glad of the secret room, glad she could hide away here and cry. She wept with her conversation with _Fitzwilliam_ Darcy in mind, knowing that if this child had lived, her husband's life would have been very different, and it was very possible he would not even be her husband. Even knowing this, still she wept, for the pain of a woman she had never known, a woman she would have liked to have known.

In time, she recovered, and finding the rain had lessened to the lightest mist she changed and left the house without breaking her fast. The cemetery was an easy walk, in the direction of the old house but before Pemberley Woods. Elizabeth had walked or ridden past it many times before, but never stopped for any length of time; without knowing their stories, the dead held little interest for her.

The cemetery was in good condition, kept tidy by Pemberley's gardeners and bordered with a trim stone fence, beside which the foundations of the old church could just be seen. Elizabeth had been learning new things about the estate from Lady Anne's writings, and one of these was that in Norman times the Lambton parish church and village had been situated here, but for reasons unknown it had been moved. Elizabeth had always found it a little strange that the family continued to be buried here, rather than in a vault within one of the churches, and she supposed no generation had ever thought to break with tradition. There was something comforting in that, she thought, something venerable in the fact that every single generation of Darcys and D'Arcys to be buried on English soil were buried right here, all together.

Admission was gained by an iron gate, which might have been in the poorest repair of the space, for it gave a long creaking protest as Elizabeth entered. She left it open to return the cemetery to respectful silence, the mist feathering her face as she walked along. Although kept clean of moss, many of the stones were exceedingly worn, and so it was easy enough to find those of the more recent generations. Elizabeth ignored the Wickhams, presuming George Darcy's respect for his steward had driven their place here, and quickly found the headstone she most cared about:

"George Darcy,

"1756 – 1807

"benevolent master of this estate

"and

"his beloved wife

"Lady Anne

"1761 – 1801

"gentlest and sweetest of souls

"and son George

"1782

"and three children who did not live to be named"

Elizabeth found herself in tears again, exclaiming in sympathetic grief, "And this is what I have ahead of me! Three children who do not live to be named!" Her tears were barely distinguishable from the mist as they came, but she felt them, she felt the pain of poor Lady Anne, and yet she knew she would keep reading the journals, for those two children who had lived: Fitzwilliam and Georgiana.

"I thought I would find you here at some point," said Darcy, who had approached without her hearing him on such a soft, damp morning.

"He died – measles," said Elizabeth, seeking his embrace and letting her cheek rest on the damp wool of his coat. She gazed up at him. "May we take the children out for a ride today, my love? May we be together as a family?"

"If this mists clears – and I believe it shall – then of course we will."

* * *

The weather did improve, and the Darcys and George Nichols went for several days' worth of rides before Elizabeth returned to the journals, aware that eventually her husband would be born and would survive, yet also aware that she had a great many entries to read through before this should come to be. Lady Ellen wrote of being pregnant again – this would be Edward, Elizabeth thought – and poor Anne suffered yet another miscarriage. Elizabeth wished, upon reading such painful moments, that she could go back and comfort her mother-in-law, that she could embrace a woman for a loss that had occurred well before she herself had even been born.

While she could sympathize with the loss of a son, still she could not fathom what it would truly feel like, nor what it would feel like to find that loss eventually followed by a son who lived – who lived still – and so that evening she returned to Lady Anne's journal and read on, eventually reaching,

" _July 25, 1783_

" _We are finally arrived at Stradbroke. It has been so long since I have seen Ellen and Andrew, and they have been so kind in their sympathy. I could not bring myself to go up and see little Andrew, and they understood this._

" _Mama is looking well. I think not having to mind papa has been good for her. Yet it has been George who has comforted me, as he always has. My dearest George, I could not have survived all of this without him. Last year was the most awful year of my life, to lose both a mother and a son. Sometimes I think perhaps God took poor Mrs. Darcy because He knew someone would need to watch after George in Heaven, and thinking of the two of them there together gives me a little comfort."_

Of course, Lady Ellen bore Edward successfully, and poor Anne was both happy for her sister-in-law and painfully jealous. Elizabeth was certain George Darcy still felt the pain of losing his children, but he seemed to be burying it in activity, going off to see the famous agricultural improvements made at Holkham and speaking to his wife of what might be done someday for Pemberley. It was the most animated either of the couple seemed to be about anything, for even a trip to the Lakes failed to cheer poor Anne. 1784 was coming, though, and Elizabeth was thankful for the reassurance of chronology, of knowing poor Anne was soon to bear the son that lived, and she read in a quick and distracted fashion those entries from the latter half of 1783, eventually passing into the new year and:

" _January 13, 1784_

" _We are returned to town. I do not wish to be here, but as we are supposed to be out of mourning, there is no excuse to miss the season. At least I have all of the Darcy family jewels, now reset as to be appropriate for the daughter of an Earl. I am to be fitted for a dress or two of the new closed robe styles tomorrow. Yet I find it hard to bring myself to care about such things, not when my poor little baby George lies cold in the ground. I will carry on because I must, and I thank God that I have George to help me through._

" _January 16, 1784_

" _God bless George – I do not deserve him. Today a lovely new Broadwood pianoforte was delivered, for even though the old one was perfectly fine, it was a lease, and George thought the purchase of a new one would cheer me. He has also subscribed to a set of private concerts given at Chesterfield Street by the brother of that man who has so popularised Methodism. I would be reluctant to attend on the basis of that for I do not want to be thought a Dissenter, but George says these concerts are attended by the best true lovers of music in high society._

" _If nothing else this is a reminder to me to return to playing, for there is nothing which gives me such comfort as playing the pianoforte or even the harpsichord._

" _January 21, 1784_

" _The concert last night was absolutely delightful. George was right that there were many members of high society there and Lady Southam was very kind and complimentary towards me, saying she remembered my playing from the house party at Tremont, and she was glad someone with my musical talents was a subscriber to such concerts. She invited me to call on her._

" _I wish I could be completely content but at breakfast this morning, Mr. Darcy said he intended to hold a dinner party next week and asked me if there would be sufficient time to prepare. It is my duty to act as hostess, and yet the thought of it fills me with so much dread. At least I get on better with Mrs. Patterson and Cook here at the London house, but the thought of having to greet all of these people, to stand before them as hostess and make all manner of chit-chat with them makes me feel terribly anxious._

Lady Anne's anxious preparations for the dinner filled a great many entries, and Elizabeth was beginning to feel exasperated – not with poor Lady Anne, but with old Mr. Darcy for putting the poor creature in a position where she must fret over such things – when finally the dinner arrived and passed as a seeming success:

" _January 30, 1784_

" _Well, I have survived the dinner. I cannot say that I felt it a success because I felt so awkward the entire time, but George said it was not noticeable and I did wonderfully. I suspect he would say thus no matter how badly I did, tho. Dearest George, I do not think I could have managed at all if not for him. I was so anxious yesterday afternoon that I felt as tho a great weight had settled on my chest, but he held me and soothed me and said I would do just fine and no matter what happened, he would always love me. I am exhausted today and would like nothing more than to just stay in and read a book, but we have Lady Southam's dinner and then the theatre tonight."_

Lady Anne's discomfort with hostessing never seemed to pass, but her growing friendship with Lady Southam and well-established sisterly bond with Lady Ellen gave her causes for cheer, and when her spirits were lowest, George Darcy would take her to Ranelagh or Vauxhall and they would go about as a reminder of their days of courtship. Usually it was just the two of them, but occasionally _Andrew and Ellen_ would accompany them, and the foursome would make their way about in happy spirits, spirits which were further lightened when Anne began to suspect herself to be with child again. Her suspicions grew stronger and stronger, and then finally,

" _March 18, 1784_

" _I told George this morning. He immediately began making plans for us to return North, first to Pemberley and then to the Lakes. There I can be spared all of my anxieties and he hopes that means I can bring the child to bear._

" _Mr. Darcy merely said he understood when George informed him he would be deprived of his hostess for the remainder of the season. I am dubious that I can carry this child to bear and worried that if I do we shall just lose it, as we did poor little George. But if there is even the chance that this helps, I agree with George that it must be done, and at least I can escape this social whirl, and go to be alone with George for some months in the place that brings us both such peace. We shall return to Pemberley in the middle of the summer, when hopefully the child will have grown large enough in my belly to stay._

" _My only disappointment is that we shall miss the commemorative concert for Handel, but in truth it sounds as tho it shall be such a squeeze that I would not have enjoyed it anyway. Mr. Wesley's concerts have been much more to my liking and I am so grateful to George for having found them."_

Elizabeth felt a swelling of tenderness towards George Darcy, who had in turn shown such tenderness towards his wife as to take her away to that place where she had felt most comfortable, who had acted so swiftly and so strongly to protect his wife. Elizabeth had never required such actions, but still she recognised the stance of the father in that of the son, that helplessness in understanding that his wife must bear the burden of carrying their child, and that desire to do all that was possible in ensuring she was safe, protected, able to bring the child to bear successfully.

"And she will," thought Elizabeth. "She will bear him, and you will call him Fitzwilliam, and he will live and love and have children of his own, grandchildren I wish you could have known."

George and Anne remained at the lake cottage long enough to feel her past a miscarriage, and only then returned to Pemberley. A few days after this, Anne wrote:

" _August 3, 1784_

" _George went out for a long ride on that mare he's so happy about having purchased when we were in town – Teasel, is her name – and after he had gone out, Mr. Darcy asked if he could speak with me. I suppose he had been waiting for some days to talk without George around. He said he needed to get back to entertaining at the pace the neighbourhood expected of Pemberley, but he understood George's concerns for my health and that I found it distressing to be a hostess. The way he said it made me feel so ashamed, as tho I was failing in my responsibilities. He said he understood too that I found running the household difficult. I apologised and said I was sorry it was not in my nature to be more authoritative. And he said something I shall never forget, which was – 'Child, you are the daughter of an Earl. You outrank everyone in this house and everyone in this neighbourhood. Act like it, and they will regard you with the authority you deserve.'_

" _I said that was very good advice and I would endeavour to follow it. He said it was my choice whether I wished to try to do so before the child was born or after. He has a distant cousin who is a widow and lives in Bath and he said he could write to her and see if she was willing to come and act as a hostess for some months if I wished, but I said no, I wanted to try now. I think he was pleased by this, and that he is acting out of concern for George's interests, for George does deserve a wife who can act as a capable hostess, but he does also deserve an heir. Then Mr. Darcy told me he wanted me to redecorate the mistress's rooms in a manner that was befitting of my station, and when they were complete he would give up his rooms to George so we could live in those apartments. I protested that it was too much for him to give up the master's rooms, but he said it was getting to be time to think of the next generation, of ensuring we were ready to be the guardians of Pemberley and the Darcy name."_

Early in the entry, Elizabeth had been on the verge of exclaiming that Lady Anne was delicate, and of fragile feelings even before the death of her son, and therefore old Mr. Darcy ought to leave her alone. She was required to set aside her protective feelings towards her mother-in-law, however, upon reading that the old patriarch had given the young lady advice that had challenged her and yet seemed well worth following. It seemed to bear fruit, as well.

" _August 6, 1784_

" _I had a conference this morning with Mrs. Harlow and Cook and I tried the whole time to remember what Mr. Darcy had said. I gave them what I wished to be the menu for next week's dinner and when Mrs. Harlow tried to protest I asked if there were concerns about the kitchen's being able to do as I asked, or the footmen being able to serve it, and I hardly recognised my own voice as I did so. Cook was quick to say the kitchen could handle it although she'd rather change out one of the flummeries for something that could be made further in advance. I said she could and asked her to think on it and propose something that complemented the rest of the meal. Mrs. Harlow said nothing but then I told her I wanted to mind the household accounts more closely and she looked very affronted. But I used that same tone, what I shall call my Daughter Of An Earl tone, and asked her to have them moved back into the mistress's study within the hour and she made no other protest."_

" _August 13, 1784_

" _The dinner went as well as I could have hoped. As we were forming the receiving line, Mr. Darcy murmured to me that I need not endeavour to chit-chat if it discomfited me, that so long as my look and bearing showed me to be a great lady I could be a little aloof. He could not have given me better advice, I think, for I did not feel the need to be constantly mingling in conversations and felt much more at ease because of it._

" _The food came out perfectly and I wore my white and blue silk with the sapphires. Mrs. Houlton said I was a great beauty and if Mrs. Sinclair made a critical comment to Miss Houlton, at least I did not hear it._

" _George said I had done wonderfully and he was very proud of me, and even Mr. Darcy said it was very well done. I am very tired, tho, and glad we have no engagements tonight so that I can read quietly as I have wanted to do so often in town."_

This entry cut through Elizabeth most sharply, not for the losses and experiences of the prior generation, but instead for how easily she saw the son in the mother, for how relieved she was to see Lady Anne adopt a panacea that had ultimately caused Elizabeth and all of Meryton to judge poor Lady Anne's son. To feel relieved that Lady Anne had found some mitigation for her shyness was to understand what it was to judge Fitzwilliam Darcy for seeking the same. Of course, he had insulted Elizabeth in and amongst doing so, and at the time she had felt the insult fully, yet now she knew enough of his thoughts and motivations of that time as to fully acquit him of any wrongdoing – or at least any wrongdoing that he had not already profusely apologised to his wife over.

Lady Anne's reward for establishing some manner of firmness with her staff was, Elizabeth learned, to be the departure of her housekeeper.

" _September 2, 1784_

" _Mrs. Harlow asked for a conference with me this morning and said she had found a place as housekeeper at Halton Hall in Lancashire, and would be leaving at Michaelmas. I think she expected I would entreat her to stay but I was quite happy at the prospect of choosing a new housekeeper who will better respect me and be easier to work with, and merely said I wished her well in her new place._

" _After we spoke George and I went for a little walk – just along the stream and back, now that I am growing larger. I am ever so glad for these chemise dresses – I feel far more comfortable than I did when I was carrying poor little George. I hope they may be better for the baby, as well, for they restrict my belly so much less when I wear them with my new stays."_

"Good riddance, Mrs. Harlow," muttered Elizabeth. She presumed and was correct that Mrs. Reynolds' predecessor, Mrs. Woburn, had followed Mrs. Harlow in the position, and found Lady Anne pleased that her own hire performed so much more to her expectations. She was more ambivalent to finding that both Lady Ellen and Lady Catherine were with child, with all the inherent hopes and expectations that must attend their states, states Elizabeth knew had only seen one child live to adulthood between the two of them, and thus knowing as she read along that she was going to meet with more tragic pain, although at least she knew Anne's child would live.

" _October 15, 1784_

" _We have another son. I am so relieved I feel like weeping when I look at him, my darling little boy. George and I had intended to name him Henry, after his grandfather, but when we put it to him, Mr. Darcy proposed he be Fitzwilliam Henry Darcy, in honour of his maternal lineage. I understood his proposal and was grateful to him for giving me one more reminder of my status. And I am glad Andrew and Ellen's efforts to restore the Fitzwilliam family name have borne such fruit that it can once again be considered a source of pride. There is one awful stain on the Earldom that Mr. Darcy does not know about, of course, but I cannot think of the shades of Stradbroke at such a happy time._

" _He is sleeping now, my little Fitzwilliam. O, my little boy, may the future bring you nothing but health and happiness!"_

"It has not been all happiness," whispered Elizabeth, "but he has had a goodly measure of it, and more still to come, I hope. I wish you could have lived to see it."

Anne recovered, and her little Fitzwilliam remained healthy, to her great relief. By the time she felt herself ready to go shopping for furniture in town, however, Lady Ellen's pregnancy had progressed too far for her to accompany her sister-in-law. Knowing her aunt-in-law's impeccable taste, Elizabeth thought the mistress's chambers would not have needed to be redone if Lady Ellen _had_ been available. Anne purchased as much in gilt as she possibly could, following the elder Mr. Darcy's advice, writing that _"I should awaken every morning and immediately be reminded of who I am and feel myself deserving of everything I must command in the course of the day."_ Lady Ellen had her daughter, who was also called Ellen; the season ended, and the Darcys returned to Pemberley, where Anne felt confused as to how to proceed with her chambers. Mr. Darcy recommended they hire an architect to see to things: Adam was written to, but would not be available for some time, and so Mr. Darcy decided they should try James Wyatt, which Anne was pleased with, having admired his work at the Pantheon. Yet Wyatt proved dilatory as the months passed, and so no progress was made on the rooms. In June, Anne received a letter from Lady Catherine, that she had borne a daughter and named her after her sister, intelligence Anne regarded with wariness: _"I suppose I should be honoured, but in truth I am suspicious of what she is about. I shall always be suspicious when it comes to Cathy, I think. It cannot be otherwise."_ And Fitzwilliam, of course, continued to grow, adored by both of his parents. Thus did a year pass in Lady Anne's life, until the sweet little entry that delighted Elizabeth.

" _October 14, 1785_

" _My dearest little Fitzwilliam is one year old today, and I continue to thank God that he is healthy. He is such a serious little child even at his age and holds his father in awe, no matter how warm and amiable George is with him. It is still more with his grandfather, who I could never describe as warm, even as I know him better._

" _We had a little celebration and gave him raspberries, which are his favourite, and he ate them until his mouth was quite pink. Then I held him and kissed his head and felt him just melt up against me. My little quiet boy, I am so blessed to have had you for so long."_

Elizabeth smiled, utterly charmed at the thought of her husband with his little face covered in raspberry juice, imagining he looked much like George had, at that age. They were still a favourite of his, she knew, and the boys enjoyed them as well, save Charles. She read on.

" _October 24, 1785_

" _Mr. Darcy raised the topic over breakfast of our having a large house party this Christmas. He wants to have some friends of his and George's and all of my nearest relations – including Cathy. I have not been in the same house as her since those awful days at Stradbroke, but George and I looked at each other and understood that we could not very well ask Mr. Darcy to leave the de Bourghs out of his invitation without explaining why, and that we could not do._

" _We talked later of it, and concluded that we shall always need to include the de Bourghs in our invitations for at least the largest events within our family, for we cannot ever be seen to shun them and give society – or even just poor Sir Lewis – a reason to wonder why we shun them. And while there is certainly something substantial lacking in Cathy's morals, to have been able to do what she did, I do not think she would take such a step again unless there was sufficient motivation. In that, I suppose Sir Lewis is at most risk, and I pray he never does anything to vex her too terribly."_

Lady Anne and Lady Catherine's being together at Pemberley with their young children might, Elizabeth realised, give her Lady Anne's side of her sister's claim that a marriage between Darcy and Anne had been planned since their infancy. Based on Anne's opinion of Lady Catherine, Elizabeth suspected she had never wanted such a match, and when later that evening Elizabeth finally reached the Christmas house party, she had those suspicions confirmed.

" _December 16, 1785_

" _The de Bourghs arrived today. They brought little Anne with them, and I was obliged to meet my namesake. She seems a nice, healthy little girl. Cathy was insistent that she be introduced to Fitzwilliam, but they are not yet of an age to care much for each others' existence, and I was glad Fitzwilliam has such a quiet demeanour, for I expect other children of his age might have made their boredom better-known._

" _December 18, 1785_

" _Andrew and Ellen arrived yesterday, with mama and all of their children, and I was so happy to see them all. We all correspond so frequently but it is not the same as residing under the same roof as them. I helped Ellen get the children settled into the nursery and was pleased to see her Edward show some interest in his cousin, although again Fitzwilliam is still too young to return his cousin's attention. The difference in their ages is still too substantial for much beyond that, but as they grow older that should lessen. I should so like for Fitzwilliam to have friends within his family._

" _And then there is little Ellen. Cathy talks of pairing Fitzwilliam with her Anne in matrimony, but in truth although I want my darling boy to have a chance to marry for love as I did, if we are considering matches within the family I would much rather he fall in love with little Ellen over Cathy's daughter, and given who shall mother each of the two girls, I think it more likely that little Ellen will grow up to be a young lady worth marrying."_

" _December 19, 1785_

" _I went to the nursery this morning to see Fitzwilliam, and Cathy came in while I was there. She kept talking about marrying her Anne to little Fitzwilliam and I said I did not wish to contemplate a match at their ages and that Fitzwilliam would be free to marry as he wished, as his father had. I regret that I looked over to little Ellen's cradle as I did so, for she saw this and said Fitzwilliam should marry her daughter and that I should be closer to her, for I was her flesh and blood. I said I could never be close to her, after all the things she had done. I very nearly said that I would rather Fitzwilliam marry anyone else over her daughter, but I did not wish to provoke her, and so I said nothing._

" _Ellen came in, then, and Cathy left a little after this, so I felt much more comfortable. Ellen is truly the sister I have always wanted, and I think it would be quite wonderful if Fitzwilliam fell in love with little Lady Ellen. Lady Ellen Darcy – how nice that would sound, now that it is a different generation I contemplate."_

This gave Elizabeth pause. Obviously little Lady Ellen had not lived, but if she _had_ , it was very possible she and Darcy might have wed before he had opportunity to meet Elizabeth. A young woman raised by Lady Ellen stood a goodly chance of being as graceful, beautiful, and intelligent as her mother, and a union between the two cousins would have been given every encouragement by the family. Elizabeth found herself rather guiltily relieved the young girl had not survived. She said nothing of this when she gave over the entries to Darcy to read, and he did not comment on it aside from thanking her for showing him that his mother had always wanted him to do what he had done – marry for love – and then proceeding to give his wife a very convincing demonstration of that love.


	30. Part 1, Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

HMS Caroline entered the harbour at Baltimore with nary a salute, and tied up against the pier at Fell's Point. As soon as she had done so, Lord Stretford went off without ceremony, intending to hire a carriage to carry him down to Washington. Following immediately after him were the Ramseys, Catherine's face filled with eager anticipation to finally see her younger sister, and Georgiana, her children, Dog, and Bowden.

As the ship had approached Baltimore, Georgiana had awkwardly explained to Catherine that owing to the bad history between George Wickham and the Darcys, he would not be allowed on board the Caroline, and Georgiana had no intention of going with her friends to call on the Wickhams. Upon sighting land, however, Caroline had been eager to take Dog ashore, and so Georgiana had agreed to walk with the Ramseys in the direction of the Wickhams' home, with Bowden to attend her family back to the ship while the Ramseys made their call.

Despite the warmth of the day, Caroline and Dog began cavorting about as soon as their feet touched solid land; the creature had grown significantly during the voyage down from Halifax and it was no little amusement to see a dog of such size so playful. Baltimore appeared a trim little town; the street along which they walked sided with brick townhouses, narrow little passages leading from the street to the homes' yards. It smelled nearer to Portsmouth and Chatham than anywhere else Georgiana could recall travelling to, the tar and oak wafting through the air reminding her of home.

Catherine had a letter of Lydia's, from which she was reading the direction to the Wickhams's lodgings, and thus was not so attentive to her surroundings as her husband, who was studying the ships that could be seen as they walked along. He stopped, gazing very appreciatively at one of them and murmuring, "Now ain't that a sultry little thing."

They all stopped, and Georgiana gazed at the ship as well, seeing immediately what he meant. It was a fore-and-aft rigged vessel, save one square sail on the top of the foremast. What was remarkable about the ship was the rake of those masts, tilting provocatively back, and the low, sleek shape of her hull. She was smaller than the Caroline, although not too much shorter, sitting significantly lower in the water.

"'Er name's Yankee Wind. Bal'more clipper," said a man engaged in a somewhat leisurely painting of her railing. "S' fer sale. Two thousand dollars."

"Too rich for me," said Captain Ramsey amiably. "She's a beauty, though."

Georgiana was endeavouring to calculate the cost in pounds as he said this, and realised it was well under five hundred: not too rich for _her_. Immediately upon understanding this, her mind began galloping towards a plan that seemed equal parts perfect and ridiculous.

"May I have a closer look at her?" Georgiana asked the man. He shrugged and said she could, so Georgiana turned towards the Ramseys and said, "Please go on ahead without us. Bowden can walk us back to the ship when we are done."

Captain Ramsey looked as though he would much prefer to look over the ship with her rather than calling on the Wickhams, but he knew his wife's eagerness to see her sister for the first time in years must take precedence, and so the Ramseys walked on. Bowden was careful to mind his mistress as she stepped down onto the deck, William drowsing against her chest, and he kept a hand ready to assist Caroline as she and Dog jumped down.

The man had gone back to his painting, so they were free to roam about the deck, Caroline giving Dog minute descriptions of all she saw, Georgiana contemplating her plan.

"Bowden, how many men do you think it would take to sail her?"

"Few as ten, milady," he said, "closer to twenty'd be more comfortable-like, though."

They would want things to be comfortable-like, for the purpose Georgiana considered. "A nice little sailing yacht," she murmured, a little snippet of her old dreams returning to her. She informed her party they should go below, and there found the space to be spartan and well-worn, although a few moments' thought told her this mattered little, since she did not like the configuration of the cabins and would wish to see it all redone so they were better suited for the Stanton family and any guests that travelled with them. If they halted John Taylor's work on the house, might he be able to do it before the Taylors took over the lease of the inn?

"Want me 'a have a look b'low, milady?" asked Bowden, standing before a panel in the floor.

"Yes, please do, if you do not mind."

Bowden opened the panel and disappeared through the hatchway. Based on the height of the space she stood (with bowed head) in, Georgiana did not think there could have been hardly any space in the hold below, but somehow Bowden managed to fit. He was down there for a long time, and finally emerged, saying, "She's a sound 'un. Well-built. Oughta be a dry sailer."

A dark one, though. The ship was so low in the water that there were no windows here, the only light coming through the hatchway above and some deck prisms embedded along her length. Georgiana saw no reason why a skylight could not be installed, though, and for the purpose she contemplated, the ship would be sailed in temperate climates, where much time could be spent upon the deck.

Georgiana fantasised about those climates as they walked back toward the Caroline, of travelling amongst the prettier seaside ports of Britain, of returning to the continent with her family. Mostly, though, she fantasised about the happiness it might bring her and Matthew. This ship was her best opportunity for compromise, a means by which Matthew might still spend part of his life at sea, but without the same risks he faced in his naval career. They would choose where they wished to go and how long they wished to spend there, and this crew of twenty men could be hand-picked by Matthew, the very best of the men who had sailed under his command. Yes, Georgiana thought, it might be just what they needed: perhaps she could not expect Matthew to live a life of country leisure, but the leisure of commanding his own yacht would suit him, and for her it would mean she did not need to give up travelling, for she _did_ enjoy seeing so much of the world as she had. She did not think she would want to take this Yankee Wind – it would certainly need to be renamed – so far as China or India, but a return to the continent would please her very much, and it was with her head full of such travel that she stepped back aboard the Caroline.

* * *

Catherine had not been sure what to expect, of the Wickhams's lodgings. She had known they were often moving from place to place – and even from city to city – in search of a less expensive situation. Yet upon the Ramseys's climbing the steps to the first floor and knocking on the door there, a female servant answered and showed them into a surprisingly fine parlour.

After that, Catherine could no longer consider the room, for Lydia appeared from the room beyond and rushed up to her sister, taking up her hands, clasping them so tightly they hurt, and saying, "Oh Lord, Kitty, when I got your letter I said I wouldn't believe it until I actually saw you, and now here you are. You really did come all this way to visit."

"I knew I wanted to as soon as Lady Stanton told me they were bound here," replied Catherine.

"You might as well call her Georgiana," said George Wickham, sauntering into the room. "After all, we are all family. I am surprised she did not come with you to call, but then I suppose she feels herself a great lady like her mother, and will not condescend to come to our humble lodgings."

Wickham was as handsome as ever, and Catherine could still recall how attractive she had found him, back when the militia had been quartered in Meryton and he had worn a red coat. Yet there was something in his tone now that set her on edge. Perhaps it was knowing that Georgiana refused to visit him, that the bad blood between the Darcys – to whom Catherine owed much – and George Wickham was such that she would not see him, nor allow him on her husband's ship.

"Perhaps we shall see her when we return your visit, though," said Wickham.

Catherine's mind began a panicked flailing of thought, searching for some way to inform George Wickham that he would be refused admittance to the Caroline if he endeavoured to visit the ship, and she was relieved when Andrew said,

"I believe it would be better if we continued to visit you here, particularly you, Mr. Wickham, as I understand there is some – irregularity – regarding your status with the army. I do not think you would wish to set foot on a King's ship, given such things."

This statement caused a certain awkwardness in tone, in the ensuing conversation, but Catherine was glad Andrew had established that Wickham would be unwelcome on the Caroline. There would be still greater awkwardness, she thought, if he endeavoured to visit the ship. It was with some relief that she gave over her family's gifts for Lydia, allowing them all to focus on discussing these items. After this was done, she and Lydia formed an expedition to go shopping the next day: just the two of them, as in the old days of Meryton.

Andrew was mostly quiet, after this, as Catherine and Lydia spoke of the changes that had taken place in their family since they had seen each other last. As they were walking back to the ship, however, he said,

"Cat, I do not like that man. Something about him sets me on edge – perhaps it is knowing that Matthew dislikes him so. I do not want you to call there by yourself. For your shopping expedition tomorrow, I would like for you to take a man with you – I am sure someone Matthew trusts can be spared from the ship."

"He has wronged the Darcys severely, but I did not think this extended so far as for Matthew to feel so vehemently about him," said Catherine, confused.

"I doubt we shall ever know the particulars, nor am I sure I wish to," said Andrew. "All I wish for is your word that you will do as I ask."

"Of course," replied Catherine.

* * *

When they settled matters the next morning, it turned out to be Georgiana's footman who accompanied Catherine, for her husband indicated his intent to go with Georgiana and have a closer look at the ship that had arrested their attention the day before, freeing up Georgiana's servant to shadow her friend.

They all walked to the ship together, and then the party split. Georgiana had brought Mrs. McClare with them this time, providing someone to mind Caroline and Dog as she and Andrew Ramsey made a closer inspection of the schooner.

"Bowden said he thought she could be sailed with somewhere between ten and twenty men," Georgiana said. "Could it really be so few?"

"Aye. Your lateen sails like these require far fewer men to work them. You are of course used to far more men, but truly even a square-rigged ship like the Caroline needs such a quantity to work her guns, not to sail her. Were she not a ship of war, they would not all be necessary."

"Were she – were she to be made into a private yacht, she would need more than just a crew to sail her, I believe. There would need to be a cook, of course, and someone with some skills in carpentry, and another who could manage the rigging."

"Aye, but I don't think you'd have difficulty finding out of work cooks and carpenter's and bosun's mates," Andrew said. "You'd need someone in authority to manage it all as well, but I daresay a half-pay lieutenant or some master whose ship was decommissioned could be easily enough found, and very likely you would not need to look far, for I understand the Caroline is to be sold out of the service after this voyage."

Georgiana replied that this was indeed to be the ship's fate, and began incorporating a cabin for this figure of authority into her mental plans for the space below where they stood.

"You're considering this rather seriously, aren't you?" asked Andrew.

Georgiana nodded. The purchase price was not insubstantial, particularly when they had been putting so much money into renovations for Stanton Hall and repairs to the village, but aside from these outlays, the Stantons spent comparably little of their income, and they had spent even less during the times they had been at sea.

They went below, Andrew taking a close look at the space there, and sticking his head through the hatchway to the hold. "I like her very well," said he, "but I doubt you could manage to surprise Matthew with the purchase. You cannot be carrying two thousand dollars around in your reticule."

"No," said Georgiana, "but I do have a power of attorney."

"Ah – well then I suppose you could. You'll need to see someone who can draw on your account in London, but I suppose first you ought to indicate an interest in the purchase. Would you like for me to enquire with the man up there as to where I can meet the owner?"

"Yes, please. Will you be willing to help me with the rest?"

"Of course I will. She's a beauty, and if I cannot have her, I'd be glad for Matthew to – particularly if Cat and I have a chance of travelling on her with you, from time to time."

"Oh, you certainly would!" cried Georgiana. In that moment she was firm in her resolve, but as they all walked back toward the Caroline, doubt began to encroach, and when Andrew said, "The owner is a Mr. Stuart, and I am to meet him at the London Coffee House in two days' time," her voice wavered as she thanked him.

He turned towards her, so as to look her in the eye, and said, "Georgiana, I do think you're doing the right thing. I can see plain enough that Matthew hasn't been himself, and I don't think he was ever formed to be a farmer. So long as the cost won't put you under water, I think you ought to buy her."

Georgiana nodded, reassured. Still, this was not the last of her concerns regarding the ship, for after they had all dined that evening and she and Matthew had performed a reasonably creditable duet, they retired for bed with Georgiana's head still full of the Yankee Wind. It was strange, to have such a secret from Matthew, and as they laid together, she began to wonder if it was indeed _wrong_. Yet she had a feeling that if purchasing the ship were put to him, he would eschew it, he would endeavour to commit to a land-based life that did not seem as though it could ever make him happy. A yacht would have to be a gift, a surprise: it would have to be his wife granting him this compromise, for he would never ask for it.


	31. Part 1, Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

Catherine was worried about Lydia. If someone should ask her why, she would not have been able to give one strong and specific reason, for in truth, her reasons were diffuse, and taken together still did not seem strong enough to merit some sort of action. There was the manner in which Wickham was regarded by the Stantons and Darcys, and the sense Catherine had gotten during their shopping expedition that while the Wickhams lived in fine lodgings, money was still a concern for them. Still more, though, was Lydia's demeanour, which seemed fundamentally altered. She was no longer that fun, happy friend Catherine had known growing up; they were both older, of course, but Catherine had retained her liveliness, and it seemed Lydia had not.

She considered these things as she trudged along in the heat – it seemed to be growing hotter every day, and Catherine wondered how Lydia could live in such a place. Georgiana's footman, Bowden, was following behind her, for Andrew had gone off to meet with the owner of the ship Georgiana intended to purchase. How very odd it was, to think of such a thing – Georgiana purchasing a ship – and yet somehow it seemed natural. Lydia had changed, certainly, but Georgiana had changed still more. Catherine could still recall her first introduction to Miss Darcy: she had been incredibly shy in those days, but clearly bred to be a society hostess, the mistress of a great house. She _was_ the mistress of Stanton Hall, but she had also travelled the world, and now she was buying a ship.

Catherine would not mention this to the Wickhams, of course, particularly George Wickham, who had already slandered Georgiana once within Catherine's hearing and in a manner that sounded as though he did it often. The shutters had been closed against the heat in the entrance-hall, but although the shade provided some relief from the sun, the air here felt somehow thicker, and hotter. Catherine ascended the staircase and knocked on the door to the Wickhams's hired rooms, but when the maid answered, she said both her master and mistress had gone out.

* * *

Back on HMS Caroline, the ship's namesake and her furry companion had finally succumbed to the heat. A walk on shore earlier in the morning had reduced Caroline to snivelling exhaustion, and poor Dog to heavy panting, and both had been sent into the sleeping-cabin to rest and recover. Georgiana had laid William down there as well, the poor child left to sleep naked aside from his clouts in an attempt to cool him.

Georgiana sat down on the sofa and took up her fan. She had travelled to India, but thankfully had arrived before the hot season, and so the nearest she had known to this heat was her time in Malta and Italy. It was not just the warmth, though; the air was so oppressively thick it seemed as though one ought to be able to feel it, if one reached out to grasp a handful of it. Georgiana wondered how Captain Ramsey was getting on with the owner of the Yankee Wind at this London Coffee House, and scowled at the thought of drinking hot coffee in such weather. Now that she had decided upon purchasing the ship, she hoped deeply that all went well at the meeting – to decide on such a thing and then have some issue rise up to prevent the purchase would be difficult to bear.

Whenever Georgiana had time for idle thoughts, she had been occupying herself with considering how the cabins and other space below in the Yankee Wind might be configured, and she turned herself to this occupation now, going so far as to find a pencil and paper to sketch out possible plans. Then the door to the day cabin clapped open and she stared at it in shock, finding Lydia Wickham standing in the doorway, breathless and sweaty.

"Is Catherine here?" she asked in a feathery voice.

"No – she has gone out, to call on you," replied Georgiana.

"Oh." Lydia stared stupidly about for some moments. "I – I guess I'll have to ask you, then. You're nice. You'll help me, won't you? I want to go home. Back to England, I mean. Please, will you help me?"

Lydia's plea quickly roused Georgiana from her torpor, and she reassured Lydia that she could take passage home on the Caroline, then rose and went to the young lady, putting her arm around Lydia's shoulders and urging her to come and sit down on the sofa. Going next to the sideboard, she poured out a glass of lemonade and went to sit beside Lydia, handing it to her.

"Lord, I'm thirsty – thank you," said Lydia, drinking down the glass in but a few gulps. Georgiana went and poured her another, which Lydia drank less aggressively. Then, seeming to determine that she must provide some greater explanation for her request (which she did not – it was perfectly sufficient for Georgiana to understand Lydia was fleeing Wickham and no more) she said,

"Kitty said your husband won't allow Wickham on his ship, so I'm safe here, aren't I?" Upon Georgiana's saying this was true and therefore she was, Lydia continued, "I've been tired of it all for some time, and I told George I didn't want to do it anymore, but he says there's no easier way for us to maintain ourselves. You see, what we do is, we go to assemblies, and find our marks: men and women who can be coaxed into having – well, having affairs. We get them to write letters and other things so we have evidence of what they've done, and then we threaten to expose them to their spouses or in society unless they pay us."

Georgiana's shock was great upon hearing this, but Lydia noticed not, and continued,

"George started it, but then he thought we could make twice the money if both of us were about it, and I thought it was such a lark at first, probably because my first mark was a very handsome man. He was really nice to me and bought me pretty things, and to think my husband would just let me have relations with him whenever I could! But then George pretended to find out about it and made poor Mr. Morris give him three hundred dollars to keep quiet, and I felt sad for poor Mr. Morris and I missed him, but George just made me find another mark. That's why we have to keep moving, because eventually we're known to too many people."

Finding herself disgusted that Wickham would make his wife do such things rather than endeavouring to earn an honest living – or find a way to live on the money both Mr. Bennet and Fitzwilliam sent to them – Georgiana struggled to keep this emotion from reaching her countenance. Lydia was a victim in all of this, a young woman who had made the same foolish choice Georgiana had nearly made, to run off with George Wickham.

Lydia wrung her hands together. "There's something else I should tell you – I'm with child. I don't know whose it is. It's not the first time I've been so, but every time I get with one, George says we can't afford it and he makes me take this awful stuff, blue – blue – oh, I can't remember."

"Blue cohosh," supplied Georgiana.

"Yes, that's it! He makes me take it and go for a really long walk and then take a hot bath until I bleed. I haven't told him about this one, though. I said I thought I had a pox, so he hasn't touched me in a long time. I was so relieved when I got Kitty's letter. I wanted to say something to her yesterday when we were shopping, but he was following us – I could see him every once and a while. I was afraid he'd follow me this morning, but I haven't seen him and now I'm here. I'm safe."

"Yes, you're safe," reassured Georgiana. "Would you like more lemonade?"

"No, thank you, I've had enough. It was very good, though. Lord, it gets so hot here. It will be so nice to go back to England – I'd rather have cold and damp than – "

Lydia was interrupted in saying any more by the door's clapping open again, this time admitting George Wickham. He must have lied about his identity to the marine guard, Georgiana thought, for all of the men had been told explicitly that he was not to be admitted onto the ship – much less the cabin – but none of them would have known him by sight.

"Marine! Guard, there!" she called out, expecting the man would come running in and Wickham could be easily removed. Moments passed, however, and the marine did not appear, nor did he when she called for him again.

"I expect he's busy, at present." Wickham smirked. "It seems there's a fire, at the front of the ship. Keeping them all quite occupied. Now I'm just here to collect my wife, and then we'll be going."

He stepped towards Lydia, and Georgiana rushed towards the door, to find help. This prompted Wickham to return to the doorway, blocking her path.

"I've no desire to harm you, Georgiana, but I cannot leave without my wife."

"You cannot see your income cut, you mean," said Georgiana bitterly. "You cannot take her from this ship – I will not allow it. The men may be distracted, but they will notice a man carrying a woman off by force."

"A man is allowed to compel his wife to return to him, Georgiana. Habeas corpus. I studied the law for a time – I know these things."

"Given you were married in England, you would be welcome to pursue habeas corpus _there_ , as regards Lydia," Georgiana said. Her voice sounded strangely cold, but her heart was thudding sharply in her chest. She stole a glance at poor, petrified Lydia and continued, "I may even offer you passage on this ship if you wish it. Of course, given the army thinks you're dead when in truth you're a deserter, I believe you would put yourself on a path to hanging rather than achieve any success with the law."

"Neither of us is going back to England," said Wickham, reaching over to seize a sword from the rack where they hung on the cabin bulkhead. "Lydia is going to leave with me, and she is going to do so quietly, and you are going to let her go, Georgiana."

William cried, then, plainly audible from the other cabin, and Wickham's countenance took on a cast that horrified Georgiana to the core. "Or I could take someone smaller, someone easier to carry off without the ship's men noticing."

"If you dare try it, my husband will hunt you down until he kills you," said Georgiana, a note of panic now audible in her voice. She had promised Lydia safety, but could never choose Lydia over her own children. Yet what could she do to stop him? There was Dog, in the cabin with the children – would the animal act to defend them? Would Wickham be intimidated by the defence of an animal of such a size? No, she could not risk their lives to hopes of a puppy's bravery. "I have money, here. Why do you not take that, instead? No-one need be harmed. I have two thousand dollars, in the stern locker over there. I was intending to purchase a ship – a yacht."

That the money was in the stern locker was a lie – but her tone regarding the purchase of the ship, and its being too strange a thing to invent, seemed to convince Wickham.

"Get it out, then," he said, motioning towards the stern locker with the sword. "Two thousand dollars is not enough for a baronet's son, but it is a fine enough start."

"It will take a moment, for we hid it," she lied. "We did not want any of the seamen to be tempted by such a sum."

Georgiana went to the stern locker and opened it, putting her head and arms inside and willing her hands to be steady as she loaded one of the duelling pistols. She worked quickly, but her warning that it would take some time to find the box still proved insufficient, and she heard Wickham striding nearer to her.

"What is taking so long?" he asked. "What are you doing, Georgiana?"

"Loading a pistol," said she, rising and pointing it at him. She pulled it to full cock, and added, "Do not move another step."

Wickham was plainly surprised, and seemed to view her with more respect. "So we are at an impasse then, are we?"

"No, we are not. You are going to leave – without anyone else – or I will shoot you," Georgiana said. Her hand felt steady, but she still kept the pistol aimed at his chest, at his heart. It was the larger target, in case she missed. She thought of William and Caroline and felt a coldness seize her. She would not miss at this distance.

Georgiana thought, then, of when the pistols had been purchased. Matthew had gone out with some acquaintances to a Parisian gunsmith, and returned with a pair of _duelling_ pistols. He had done so after George Wickham had accosted his wife, and she realised that these pistols had always been meant for Wickham, that all these years later she might have to take his life with one.

To his credit, he did not accuse her of bluffing. Perhaps he understood by the look on her face that she was assessing him the same way she did a sailcloth target. He could not know her accuracy in shooting, but perhaps the way she handled the pistol was sufficient to give him pause.

The door opened yet again. It was Matthew, who took but a moment to survey the scene and then pull another sword from the bulkhead.

"Lower the pistol please, Georgiana," he said. "I do not want him to say this was not a fair fight."

It had not been a fair fight at all when Wickham had been threatening two unarmed women with a sword, Georgiana nearly protested, but instead she did as he asked.

The fight was over so quickly she did not even have time to worry. Wickham had taken one of the finer-looking presentation swords, leaving Matthew to his usual heavy sabre, a weapon he had wielded often in battle – a weapon he had already taken lives with. His recent practice told as well, and although he was taller than Wickham, he was also far nimbler, for having not spent his time in idleness and dissipation. Their swords crossed a few times, and then Wickham's sword went flying as he stumbled backwards. He landed hard upon the deck and stared up fearfully at Matthew, who merely gazed at him for some moments.

Finally, Matthew said, "I hope you recall why I do this," and took the tip of his sword, carefully and deliberately carving a line down Wickham's cheek. How Wickham howled as this was done, a vastly different man from the one who had sauntered into the cabin earlier.

"There, Lord Stretford, Matthew does understand cowards now – at least this one," thought Georgiana.

When Wickham had grown silent again, Matthew said, in an even colder tone than Georgiana had thought him capable of, "I could take you back to Portsmouth to hang for setting fire to a King's ship, or to be turned over to the army so they may do the deed for your desertion. I shall not, but do not think I act out of benevolence to you. If I could affect your death without causing scandal to my family, I would not hesitate to do so, and if I ever catch sight of you again, I will kill you. Do you understand?"

Wickham nodded, grasping his cheek with his hand, the blood seeping through his fingers. He rose unsteadily to his feet and once he had done so, Matthew grasped his arm and went about seeing him off the ship, the sword still held tight in Matthew's other hand.

Georgiana looked briefly towards Lydia, who had been watching all of this in petrified silence and was now sinking into a seat on the sofa, all the colour gone from her face. It was not to her that Georgiana went, though. She ran into the sleeping-cabin and plucked William from Mrs. McClare's arms and sank to her knees on the deck where Caroline was fast asleep, Dog serving as her pillow. Caroline stirred, and finding her mother weeping there with her brother, rose and joined in the embrace. Eventually Georgiana felt Matthew join them, his arms and chest so very solid, so reassuring.

"I would have killed him, to protect them," she whispered.

"I know," said he, "but it is no small thing to take a life, and I am glad you did not have to."

* * *

Catherine had waited at the Wickhams's lodgings for some time, in the hopes that Lydia might return, but as she had not, finally decided to leave a note for her sister and walk back to the Caroline. Once on board the ship, she found it smelled strangely of smoke. Bowden seemed to think this very strange as well and asked her to wait while he went below to investigate. A few minutes later, he came up the companion-ladder and said she could go below, but she'd best go to the captain's cabins for now until the captain said it was safe to go elsewheres.

The haze of smoke was stronger down below, but it dissipated a bit once she entered the sleeping-cabin. There she found the entirety of the Stanton family embracing, and began to understand that something of great import had happened. She passed through, and in the great cabin found Lydia, seated on the sofa and weeping copiously. Catherine ran to her and drew her into an embrace.

"Oh Lyddie, whatever happened?"

Lydia proceeded into an exceedingly incoherent narrative about what Catherine eventually came to understand was an attempt to flee her husband and return with the child she was carrying to England, an attempt interrupted by Wickham's entering this very cabin and threatening them with a sword. "He threatened her children, Kitty – it was cruel of him, and I thought for sure I'd have to go back with him and I was about to say I would because I didn't want the children to be harmed and I was so scared, but she loaded a pistol – right under his nose! – and pointed it at him. Then Captain Stanton came in and said it should be a fair fight which was stupid because it wasn't fair at all when he had a sword and we didn't and then they fought and he cut Wickham."

"Cut him – mortally?"

"Lord no, on his cheek. It was deep, though. He'll probably be scarred for life. Serves him right."

Georgiana and Matthew entered, prompting Lydia to burst back into tears and thank them profusely for defending her. It was plain Georgiana had been crying, and her eyes filled with tears again in response to Lydia's gratitude.

"Lydia told me what happened," Catherine said. "What I don't understand, though, is what this had to do with the fire. Or is it a coincidence?"

"It was not a coincidence," said Georgiana. "He set a fire to distract the men – particularly the marine guarding the cabin."

"Impossibly foolish," added Matthew. "If it would have reached the magazine, it would have sent us all to kingdom come. I still do not understand how he came aboard unnoticed, but I suppose such a slippery man as him would have found a way. I will set more men at watches while we are here, and no-one unknown to them will be allowed aboard. I promise your safety on board this ship, Mrs. Wickham. If your husband returns it will be the death of him."

"Thank God you are all well," said Catherine.

"I will presume you are returning to England with us, Mrs. Wickham?" asked Matthew.

"Yes, please," whispered Lydia.

Matthew nodded. "Catherine, we shall give her the cabin next to yours. Perhaps you'd like to take her there and let her settle. The wardroom was unaffected by the fire – Bowden can attend you there."

It was likely that Lydia wouldn't need to take the cabin Matthew had directed her to, for Andrew was going to sail the Yankee Wind back to England and Catherine would go with him, so she presumed Lydia would rather be with them. As she knew it was intended to be a surprise for Matthew, however, she said nothing, and decided she wouldn't say anything to Lydia of it either. Lydia had never been particularly good at keeping secrets.

Bowden led them down to the wardroom, and Catherine showed Lydia the cabin, saying, "I can get you whatever you want, to make it more comfortable."

"It's very nice," said Lydia. "I wonder if I could borrow a nightgown from you, though. I didn't bring anything with me except what I could fit in my reticule."

"We could send some of Captain Stanton's men for your things," offered Catherine.

"Oh, could you? That would be very nice. Fanny can – oh dear, poor Fanny!"

"Is she your maid?"

"Yes – I don't want to leave her. Wickham won't pay her without my being there, and he might – "

"We'll send someone for her too, then." Catherine turned to Bowden, who was waiting to be dismissed. "Can you please pass the word that some men are to be sent to Mrs. Wickham's lodgings, for her maid Fanny and her belongings?" She told him the direction to the Wickhams's lodgings, he gave her some sort of weird salute, then departed.

"I think I'd like to rest now, if I can – it's been a really difficult day," said Lydia.

"Of course, here, let me get a nightgown for you." Catherine retrieved the garment and gave it over to her sister, and Lydia requested assistance with her dress and stays. It was only when the latter were loosened that Catherine came to understand the extent of Lydia's pregnancy, for what had not been hidden by her dress had been largely hidden under long stays.

Lydia gasped after they were loosened, and said, "Oh, that is so much better. I think it will be healthier for the baby to not be squashed so much." She laid her hand on her stomach and murmured, "I couldn't have all the rest, but I'll have this baby, at least."

Catherine did not reply, merely gaping at her sister's notably protruding belly until she finally forced herself to wish Lydia a good rest and exit the cabin. The tears were strong in her eyes as she left the wardroom, for now she knew she would be the only one of her sisters to fail to have a child. Now wasn't the time to be thinking such things, she told herself. Lydia and her child were safe, and she ought to be grateful.

* * *

Fanny arrived with Lydia's belongings – retrieved without issue, for wherever George Wickham had gone to nurse his wounded cheek, it had not been his lodgings. Poor Fanny was given the choice of losing her employment or migrating to England, and seemed unwilling to commit to the latter until she was taken aside by Moll Kelly. Whatever Moll promised – likely the prospect of entry into great houses, possibly of learning the abigail's trade from Sarah Kelly – turned the tide, and Fanny remained aboard the Caroline to help her mistress dress for dinner.

Lydia entered the great cabin hesitantly and Georgiana gaped at her, shocked at how very pregnant she appeared now that she was no longer endeavouring to conceal it. Matthew's reaction was the same, and he rushed to aid her into a chair at the table.

It was an awkward dinner; it could not be otherwise. The Ramseys were both there – Captain Ramsey having returned to the ship with no opportunity to do more than nod to Georgiana – but even they were a bit lacking in conviviality, given all that had occurred that day. It was Georgiana, though, who struggled most to introduce topics of conversation, who could think of nothing to say to Lydia in particular. She had defended Lydia with a pistol earlier that day but still felt guilt, when she looked at the young woman, for Lydia had suffered the fate she had narrowly avoided. It was impossible to refrain from thinking that if Georgiana _had_ eloped with Wickham, it was Lydia instead who would have been safe all along. Georgiana's escape had left the door open for Lydia's downfall, and while it did not seem Lydia knew of Georgiana's history with Wickham, still it could not but affect their interactions.

In the end, what saved them was the food – fresh fish and crabs and oysters in abundance, strangely coloured and even sweetened potatoes, and such an immense variety of fruits that one could not possibly try them all. When conversation flagged, they applied themselves to eating, and as Lydia was eating for herself and an unborn child, her application was most diligent of them all.

Georgiana and Matthew played after dinner, and perhaps it was due to the emotions of the day, but she felt him to sound better than he had since before the Icarus. Applause from their small audience was sedate, however. Lydia seemed perturbed, and Georgiana supposed it made sense that she was so. After the life she had been living, quiet dinners amongst a small family party followed by such simple entertainments must have seemed very strange to Lydia.

In the rearranging of the party as they were preparing to retire and the children were brought in from the other cabin, Captain Ramsey managed to draw Georgiana aside and inform her that the sale was to proceed, and the two of them were to meet with the owner in the London Coffee House in another two days' time, and she was to bring the funds. To this Georgiana's whispered response was, "but women don't go into coffee houses," and his reply, "they don't buy ships, either."

After this they fell into the more usual evening routine, with Moll chattering away as she changed Georgiana about what a nice addition to their mess Fanny Hawkins would be, and then leaving her mistress alone in her nightgown. She clambered up into their hanging cots, and when Matthew entered, he climbed in and laid down beside her, drawing her close. It was a chaste closeness, of the same sort they had shared when they had embraced earlier as a family, but it was closeness nonetheless. After everything that had happened Georgiana was grateful for it, and she laid her hand over his where it rested, high on her belly.

"I am grieved you were put in such a situation today, Georgiana, but I am proud of you, my dearest, strongest wife."

Georgiana's face grew hot at such praise, even as she was pleased by it. "I only did what any woman would have done, to protect her child."

"If you think any woman – or even man – would have managed to talk Wickham into allowing them into a position where they could surreptitiously load a pistol in his presence, you have a great deal more confidence in your fellow man and woman than I, dearest. Let me be proud of you, my fierce mama bear."

Georgiana grinned at such an appellation, and felt his hand tighten over hers. "I just want you to remember, dearest, that you are here with me, and you are safe, and Wickham cannot hurt you tonight. I know – I know seeing him has often prompted nightmares, for you."

"Thank you," Georgiana whispered. She was grateful for his reassurances, but presumed that in spite of them she would find herself returning to her nightmares of Wickham.

Yet she did not; she slept deeply, soundly, with nary a dream at all to trouble her, waking early in the morning where she had fallen asleep, in the arms of her husband.


	32. Part 1, Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

They still had no notion of when Lord Stretford was going to return to Baltimore and therefore when they were to set sail, and so Lydia was in essence a captive on HMS Caroline. Catherine endeavoured to keep her sister company as much as she could, but their topics of conversation were often mundane, frivolous. She had the sense that Lydia was avoiding those deeper topics, that what she had shared on that first emotional day she had come on board the ship was all she might ever share.

Eventually she did share more, though. They were taking the air on the deck in the morning when Lieutenant Rigby – who had been invited to dine in the great cabin the previous evening, so as to enliven the party a bit more – walked past. He was the officer of the watch and therefore spared them no more than a bow, but this bow was sufficient to cast chagrin over Lydia's countenance.

"He is such a handsome young man, and so responsible," said Lydia. "I wish I had been more discerning when I was young – I wish I had not married until I had been acquainted with more men. Wickham was charming, it's true, but if I had known more of men, I think I would have understood him better, and I wouldn't have married him."

Catherine said nothing, but gave her sister a look of encouragement to continue, and Lydia did.

"Wickham doesn't care about anyone but himself," Lydia said. "It took me too long to realise that, but eventually I did. When I lied and told him I thought I had a pox, his only care was whether he had caught it. He didn't care about me, and he still wanted me to go out and have relations with other men, even if it meant they got the pox. Maybe I shouldn't judge him about things I came to understand about his character when I lied to him, but I do."

"I think it's appropriate, to judge him for such things," said Catherine. "Was that when you stopped loving him?"

"Nay. I stopped loving him the first time he made me lose a baby. I tried to say I wouldn't take that nasty stuff and it should be up to me since I was carrying the baby, but he said he'd throw me out in the cold if I didn't – I know it's really hot now, but you'd be surprised how cold it gets here, in the winter – and he hit me a couple times. He said it was to knock some sense into me as regarded our situation. After that I was scared and did what he said."

"Oh Lydia, why did you not flee?" asked Catherine. "All the money was to your name, could you not have taken it and fled?"

Lydia looked wounded, to hear such a thing from her sister. "I'm not like you and Georgiana – I haven't travelled the world and done things. All I ever did was come here and once I did I was apart from all my family and everyone who could tell me how things worked, except for Wickham."

"I wish you would have written, then!" exclaimed Catherine. "I hate to think of you suffering here by yourself."

"I thought about it," said Lydia, "but for a long time I didn't want to admit things were so bad. All the rest of you married so well – your lives were so happy – I didn't want to write that mine wasn't. But then you arrived here, and I knew I had to leave with you."

Catherine was in tears, and Lydia reached out and clasped her hand. "I didn't want to make you cry, Kitty. You came and you're taking me away now, and that's what matters."

* * *

The morning following the events with Wickham, Georgiana had found time for a lengthier private conversation with Captain Ramsey, and learned not only greater details about the planned meeting with the ship's owner, but also that he had arranged to take the Yankee Wind for a sail, to ensure he was happy with her sailing qualities. He offered that Georgiana should come with him to witness this demonstration and make arrangements for the money, and she agreed to do so. Conscious that Wickham was still abroad, however, she had Bowden come with them as well, and endeavoured to slip away from the ship when none of the rest of her family should see her. Matthew, because of the secret of her purchase, and Caroline because Georgiana thought it best that none of the vulnerable aboard HMS Caroline should go ashore while they remained in Baltimore.

Thus she left instructions that this was to be so with Mrs. McClare, directing her nurse to tell Caroline it was too hot for poor Dog to go ashore if the child was insistent, and leaving behind another pap boat full of milk in chance William needed it. Captain Ramsey said the owner had told him the Mechanics's Bank to be the best place to draw upon a London account, and proposed they go there first, as they had ample time before the hour he had arranged for the sail. In any other climate, Georgiana would have considered it a short walk, but even though they arrived well before noon, she still found herself waving her fan vigorously in an attempt to clear her glistening face.

They entered a trim little building, and although they were now in the shade the windows were all closed, making the room seem still and thick. There were two vast desks, but only one of them held a clerk, and he looked up at Andrew and Georgiana and asked, "Good mornin' aye, an' what d'ye need?"

"I wish to draw upon an account at Drummonds, in London," said Georgiana. "I have a power of attorney."

"Drummonds, in London," said the clerk, cackling. "Well, an' is yer Tory 'usband a'knowin' you be drawin' the money?"

Georgiana snapped her fan closed. "If my husband did not trust how I spent our money, he would not have granted me a power of attorney, would he?"

"Hoo hoo hoo," laughed the clerk. "I 'spect he don't question you over nothin', not when you're a'speakin' like that."

Still, Georgiana handed over her papers nervously. She was used to making these sorts of transactions – albeit not for nearly such a sum – in places like Malta and Italy, where there were more established methods of transferring money. She held her breath as he examined them, aware that his refusal would require them to try another place, and if enough places refused her, she might despair of getting the money on this side of the Atlantic ocean. He examined everything carefully, but then said if _Lady_ Georgiana Stanton wished to take her husband's Tory money out of his Tory bank, everything was in order and she could do so. Georgiana thanked him and slipped him what she considered appropriate vails, which made him stop mocking her and ultimately resulted in forty slips of paper to the sum of fifty dollars each of "Drovers and Mechanics National Bank of Baltimore" banknotes being handed over to her.

She paused before the threshold to fold them and tuck them deep within her stays, aware of the risks of carrying so much money upon her person, even when she was accompanied by two substantial men. They walked over to the Yankee Wind's berth, and found a group of American seamen waiting about for their arrival. It was not yet the agreed-upon hour, but seeing that their principals were there, the men began making the ship ready to take out and a quarter-hour later, they were being towed away from the quay by the ship's lone boat, a cutter, Captain Ramsey noting he would add a gig or at the very least a jolly-boat, so that she would have two, and noting that a barge might reasonably be added as well, if she was fitted with stern davits.

In a pinnace and a cutter, Georgiana's husband had been placed with the remainder of those loyal to him from the Icarus. In a pinnace and a cutter, he had commanded those remaining men, had navigated them to the Azores. Georgiana looked at the little cutter belonging to the Yankee Wind, closed her eyes, and said she thought they would establish the ship's boats as Matthew thought was appropriate, but surely he would think they needed more than one.

With nothing to approximate the dramatic events Georgiana was envisioning, the handful of men that were to give them this test sail of the Yankee Wind towed her out into the inner harbour, then clambered back aboard the ship, leaving the cutter to tow. There was a breeze blowing – a hot, thick breeze, but a breeze nonetheless – and as soon as the ship's lateen sails had been raised they took it readily, and the ship herself drifted forward. Georgiana was pleased with the clipper's progress, but Captain Ramsey looked about him with a dubious countenance, until he finally looked to their de facto leader – the man they had first spoken to – and asked him to give the ship her head. The man chuckled and said, "I will, if ye wish, but it's not as if ye Tories'd be able to sail 'er. Ye've gott'a be born an' bred in Bal'more 'a be able to put 'er through 'er paces."

Any number of retorts formed themselves in Georgiana's mind, and it was only Andrew Ramsey's hand upon her shoulder that prevented her from communicating them. As they left the harbour and glided up the Patapsco River, he asked various questions about the Yankee Wind's sail trim and what enabled her to perform at her best. He was answered, albeit in answers that indicated extreme dubiousness as to whether an Englishman could sail her thus.

It was rather a staid sail, so far as Georgiana was concerned, for she had known her husband to push the Caroline far harder, until the frigate's deck sloped considerably and the water sang along her railing, a great frothy wave at her bow. Yet it was enough for Captain Ramsey to indicate he was pleased with the ship, and to – privately, once they were walking back to the Caroline – tell Georgiana that while these Baltimore clippers were not what an Englishman was used to commanding, he did not think the differences between them and an English ship of similar size to be insurmountable. They would meet Mr. Abbott at the London Coffee House the next day, therefore, and if all went well, the Yankee Wind would belong to Georgiana.

* * *

All went well the next day. Mr. Abbott did call Georgiana an English Tory and did express some doubt about selling the ship to her. Georgiana felt an equivalent degree of doubt, to be conducting the transaction in the London Coffee House surrounded by all the other men conducting their business. Yet this population was small at the present hour, consisting of two men who appeared in earnest conversation near the window, four men taking their turns in flirting with the woman who waited upon them and speaking about the state of the town's shipping industry, and another who sat in the corner reading a newspaper.

Despite Mr. Abbott's doubts, Georgiana's money did eventually quell him. While chuckling that her Tory husband was not likely to be able to sail the ship, he still took the money, and it took all of Georgiana's self-restraint to avoid telling him that the money had come from American merchantmen captured during the late war between their two countries. Let him think what he would: she had no doubt in Matthew's ability to sail any ship, even the provocative Yankee Wind. The money was turned over, the bill of sale signed by Georgiana, and the Yankee Wind was now formally her ship. Fortunately, Captain Ramsey did not allow her any time spent in the shock of formality that could have set in after such a purchase. He asked if he could recruit a small crew to sail her, and Georgiana promised that he could.

The ease he found in doing so was set in the peace between two countries that had some years ago been at war; now, when word got out that a British schooner yacht needed hands to sail her back to England, there was a veritable flood of applicants awaiting Captain Ramsey at the appointed hour the next day. How he chose among them, Georgiana did not know; presuming he had recruited a crew many times before, she left him to it and arrived at the ship later that morning to meet them. Most were British seamen who wished to work for their passage home, although there were a few American men who did not much seem to care where they went so long as they were paid well. They understood that the ship was a surprise for Georgiana's husband – one even claimed to have sailed under him – and thought this a great lark. Captain Ramsey said he intended to take her out for a more substantial test, and as delicately as he was capable of, gave Georgiana to understand he would rather she watch this test from the quay, as he intended to get a better sense of what she was capable of.

There was a certain gleam in his eye, and Georgiana understood that while _he_ might happily make the transition to landowner, he would still get a great deal of enjoyment out of this unexpected command. She thought as well that if he ever wished for loan of the ship, the Stantons would happily grant it, for he had been invaluable in bringing the purchase about.

Georgiana left them to their sail, therefore, watching with Bowden from the quay as the new seamen towed the ship out – with considerably more zeal as though to prove themselves than those of that first test sail – and hauled on her mainsail until it caught the wind and the ship began moving forward. The rest of her sails came up in quick succession, the square topsail rising last. The wind was more substantial on that day, and as Captain Ramsey had promised, they sailed her much more aggressively, tacking at the end of the harbour and coming back past Georgiana with her deck heeled over considerably. The ship was beautiful, Georgiana thought – provocative, yes, but also undeniably beautiful – but she was not expecting to be seconded in her thoughts by Matthew, who startled her by saying from over her shoulder, "Beautiful, isn't she? They took her out the other day – I noticed her then. Baltimore Clippers. I chased a few, back during the American war, but even the Caroline cannot catch one. Nothing faster on the ocean."

He stepped closer and stood beside her. Georgiana gulped. She had begun to consider how she should tell Matthew of the purchase, but had not determined on her course yet. She realised it must be now, and quickly, before he noticed the ship was commanded by his friend.

"You like her, then?" she asked.

"I do not think there could be a man who likes sailing ships who would not like her," he said. "She seems particularly sultry for her type – the rake on her masts, her lines – I have rarely seen a ship so pleasing to look upon."

Georgiana turned to face him and took up his hand. "I am glad you like her, for she is to be our yacht. I purchased her yesterday."

To say he was shocked would be to understate the matter substantially. He gaped at her for some minutes in disbelief, but when finally he comprehended that she was in earnest he said nothing, instead pulling her to him and kissing her with a passion that was outright shocking after the chasteness of the past months. Georgiana was typically very careful about such things, but in these moments she did not care that they were standing on a public pier in sight of all of Fell's Point. Let them judge her and Matthew – she would never see any of them except Bowden again, and from the corner of her eye she could see her footman turning away respectfully.

Matthew kissed her until she was well and truly breathless and then said, "God bless you, Georgiana. God bless you, my dearest, dearest wife."

"I thought we would keep her in Portsmouth," she said. "You can take her out for the day whenever the weather is fine, and we can sail as a family wherever we wish: to Margate, Brighton, Weymouth, Lyme, and I would like to return to the continent, to Italy – we never saw Venice, and many other places."

He kissed her again. "Wherever you wish to go, dearest Georgiana, we will go."

They stood on the pier, Georgiana in his arms, watching the ship sail out of the mouth of the harbour and into the river. She had the sense of something welling up within her bosom and realised it was happiness, a happiness she had not known since Malta: the joy of knowing not only her own happiness, but that of her husband. She had been right, about the compromise this ship offered, right that it was the only path forward that could allow the Stantons to be a family, together, without any of them needing to sacrifice too much, and it was clear to her by Matthew's reaction that he understood this as well.

They waited until the Yankee Wind returned, Captain Ramsey catching sight of them on the pier and giving them a look of some understanding. As they tied the ship up, he lept ashore, clapped Matthew on the shoulder, and said, "You'll like her very well, my friend. Sails like a temperamental little filly, but she's got at least fourteen knots in her and likely more."

Matthew gave Georgiana his hand as she stepped down into the ship, but then left her to make a very minute inspection of the Yankee Wind, pausing only to greet Sykes, the man who had claimed a prior acquaintance with him. Georgiana was glad she had been assisted in the purchase by Captain Ramsey and Bowden, for the Yankee Wind did seem to pass muster. Matthew went below, and she followed him down the companion-ladder and into what she presumed had been the captain's cabin. It was a simple, utilitarian space; the best thing that could be said about it was that it appeared clean.

"I want to have all of the space down here rearranged – I have some sketches back at the Caroline," said Georgiana, "and I want to have a skylight put in. It is rather dark down here." Then she could say no more, for he was kissing her again just as deeply and intensely as he had on the quay. He closed the door, and the expression in his eyes was one Georgiana had not seen since he had returned, but he could not want to –

He kissed her again and let his hands roam down her body, and it was apparent that he _did_ want to, here, now, in this new place they owned, and upon understanding this, Georgiana's own desire was immediate and tremendous. Matthew paused only to whisper, "Is it too soon, dearest? Are you ready, after the baby?"

"Oh Matthew, I have been ready for a very long time."

* * *

The heat finally broke much later that night, hours after Georgiana had walked up the companion-ladder of the Yankee Wind with her hair coming loose from its pins and a very hot face. It broke with a spectacular thunderstorm, booming and clapping outside the sleeping cabin of the Caroline, the lightning flashing bright before each cascade of thunder. One of these flashes provoked an audible squeal from Caroline, and Georgiana half expected the child to come bursting into the sleeping cabin in frightened tears, but she did not: presumably the comforts of Dog had been sufficient.

It was well Caroline had not come into the sleeping cabin. Georgiana did not know how she could have explained the child's parents' present situation, which was lying in a state of sated nakedness in their joined cots. Georgiana herself could hardly explain it, although she had longed for it; she had thought the purchase of the Yankee Wind would resolve certain things within the Stantons's marriage, but not _this_. No, this had been quite unexpected, and quite wonderful.

The gunports in the cabin had been closed, but they were not airtight, and a cold, damp breeze blew in as the wind gusted, welcome to Georgiana after such hot, sticky lovemaking. She smiled and turned her chin from where it rested on Matthew's chest, to meet his eyes.

"I was right, you know," said he. "I do not deserve you. But I am grateful I have you: my mama bear, who will stop at nothing to protect her family, to secure its happiness, who will find a middle way when I thought there was none that could be found."

"I just want all of us to be happy," said Georgiana, "and I think we _will_ be."

"I think we will be, too," said he. "I delight in the thought of all of us on board – what is her name, dearest?"

"Yankee Wind," stated Georgiana.

Matthew chuckled, his mirth turning to a deep, booming laugh she could feel beneath her chin. "Yankee Wind? Truly?"

Georgiana giggled and said that it was so, and he must have the renaming of her.

"Well, then she must be named _Georgiana_."

"Oh Matthew – no – that is not what I sought, in purchasing her."

"Dearest, if I name a ship looking as she does anything other than _Georgiana_ , or perhaps _Lady Stanton_ , whatever I do name her will be presumed to be the name of my mistress." He ran his hand along her bare back. "As I do not have a mistress, and have no desire for one, I feel that would be exceedingly unfortunate. So make your choice, my wife: Georgiana, or Lady Stanton?"

"Georgiana, I suppose," she whispered.

"Georgiana she will be, then," he said, "and I will love her dearly, although never so much as her namesake."


	33. Part 1, Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

What Mary liked most about life at Wincham was its stability. Her life was formed of simple, consistent matters: caring for Marianne and her parishioners, dining with the Winterleys and other members of the neighbourhood, and service every Sunday. It was a happy life, a productive life, and while it was punctuated with changes in the parishioners' lives – births, illness, and even deaths – the Stantons knew a healthy household, one that did not change.

This held true until a letter from Richard Stanton threw it all into disarray. David came into the nursery holding this letter, his countenance one of shock. "My father is coming to stay with us," he said simply, and handed the letter to Mary.

In angry, bombastic prose, Richard Stanton indicated that there had been a "misunderstanding" and he had been defrocked, had lost his living. This seemed to have occurred some time ago – perhaps a month or two – and he had been living with Jacob Stanton and his new bride, but now thought it time to visit his other son and daughter, and to see his granddaughter. Mary thought it was likely that Jacob's new wife had encouraged his leaving, that Mr. Stanton had outstayed his welcome in a marriage so new.

Mr. Stanton was not awaiting a response, or a formal invitation. He had named a date for his arrival presuming he would be accommodated out of filial duty, a date a mere three days away.

"I am sorry, Mary. His presumption that we should be ready to receive him whenever he wishes to appear on our doorstep is unfathomable. I have been afraid of his losing the living for years – I fear our uncle has been protecting him all this time, and with him gone from the country, that protection was also gone."

"We shall manage," she said soothingly, although in truth she felt tremendously nervous. He must have sensed this, for he laid his hand upon her shoulder and ran his thumb back and forth until she felt calmer.

"I would recommend we put him in the green bedroom," said he, and Mary agreed. It was the largest of the bedrooms they could offer to guests, but more importantly it was farthest from their own room and the nursery.

"He does not say how long he intends to stay," Mary stated, glancing back through the letter, concerned that a man of Richard Stanton's age, with his income now gone, might be intending to make his stay permanent.

"It is my duty as a son – and a good Christian – to take him in now," said David, "but when he has had a chance to settle we will speak about the future, about finding a new place for him. There must be some congregation somewhere that would appreciate his version of Christianity. Things will be difficult for a little while, but perhaps this is for the best for him – perhaps he can go somewhere he will be truly appreciated."

"I hope so," said Mary. She recognised that it was right to give the man Christian charity, but she was very concerned about what his presence was going to do to her happy equilibrium. He had never been a particularly pleasant man to be around, and losing his living would certainly not have made him any kinder.

Mary found these predictions to be very right, when three days later the Regulator came rolling into town and Richard Stanton climbed down stiffly from his seat atop the stagecoach. His appearance was every bit that of an old man who had come down in the world, who had never travelled in such a manner before and was perturbed that he had been required to do so. He spent the walk to the Stantons's parsonage complaining about hot soup and his neighbours on the coach, and continued his complaints even once fed in the drawing-room. It was only when he had finally exhausted these topics that he said, "Well, where is the little girl – my granddaughter?"

"I'll go and bring her down," Mary said, eager to go up to the nursery for some moments of respite before she did so. Little Marianne was a pretty, sweet-tempered child of two now, glad to snuggle with her mother before Mary said, "Your grandfather is here – would you like to meet him?"

Marianne nodded eagerly and took her mother's hand. It was only when they arrived at the bottom of the stairs that Mary realised the child was eager because she thought her grandfather _Bennet_ was there, for she was hardly aware that another grandfather of hers existed. Her grandfather Bennet could be relied on for a comfortable lap and a reading of one of Aesop's fables, and moreover Marianne must have presumed her grandmother Bennet – who was always producing ribbons and toys and warm, grandmotherly hugs – was with him. The child started upon seeing Richard Stanton instead of these favoured relatives, and gazed up at him nervously when he rose to his full height and said, "Good afternoon, Marianne. I am your grandfather Stanton."

"Make your curtsey, Marianne – do you remember how I taught you?" Mary asked. Her daughter made a quick little bob, clutching her mother's hand tighter as she did so.

"I have some gifts for you, Marianne," he said, opening the valise he had carried into the house and producing a wooden cross and new volumes of _Fordyce's Sermons_. Marianne looked over the cross in puzzlement, and the books were too heavy for her to even carry. She dropped the one that was handed to her, earning her a look of some disapproval from her grandfather.

"I am sure she will be very appreciative of these when she is old enough to read them, father," said David, moving quickly to pick up the book and take the other volume from Mr. Stanton.

"You should begin reading them to her now – or better yet, I shall," said Mr. Stanton. "It is never too early to begin a child's moral education."

Thus poor Marianne was subjected to her grandfather's summoning her to the drawing-room every evening after dinner for a reading of _Fordyce's Sermons_. Poor Marianne understood none of it, and the child was practically wriggling with boredom by the time David suggested to his father that at her age the lessons must be kept short. She threw no tantrums, though, and when Mary took her back up to the nursery, she would kiss the dear child's head and tell her she had been very good, very patient.

Her mother had her own struggles with patience, for whenever David left the house she found herself subjected to Mr. Stanton's moralising on every possible subject. She had never met a man who could speak at such length and breadth on sin, and he also had a great many opinions on the running of a Christian household, on the raising of Christian children. Mary struggled with forbearance and recalled her own days of moralising. Was this what she had sounded like? If so, she owed an apology to her entire family. How she missed them all, how gladly she would have welcomed any of them over this man!

The only thing that made it all tolerable was David's gratitude towards her, his praise for that very forbearance she struggled with. Every night when they retired to bed, he praised her, thanked her, loved her, and it was from this fount that she drew enough patience to make it through the next day.


	34. Part 1, Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

Elizabeth was not sure her worries about Abigail Sinclair would ever cease, but when she went out for a ride and the young woman's spirits seemed lighter, she found herself hopeful that matters were somehow improving. Things were not improving as regarded Laurence Sinclair's desire to enclose the common, however: Lord Brandon's reply to Darcy's letter indicated he would do what he could, but lacked enough influence to be certain of quashing it himself. He recommended Darcy prepare a counter-petition, presuming enough of those holding rights in the common were opposed.

It was because of Lady Anne's journals that Elizabeth better understood why Lord Brandon lacked such influence: much of his life had been dedicated to restoring his family's name and lands, leaving less time to cultivate political connexions. It was to the journals she returned that evening, finally reaching the death of Darcy's grandfather.

" _February 26, 1786_

" _My father-in-law is dead. He had seemed to be slower, older, over the past few weeks, but I look back now and wonder when he saw his own demise coming. This wish to have family all around at Christmas, even his talking about preparing for the next generation – I do wonder if he knew his health was failing. He said nothing of it, but then that is his way. At least he passed knowing Pemberley to be in good hands, to go to George – and with Fitzwilliam to succeed him. I like to think he is reunited with Mrs. Darcy and now they together shall look after little George until we are all reunited."_

Quiet mourning at Pemberley followed, and Lady Anne only wrote when her son had done something she found noteworthy, until an entry in March that read:

" _March 14, 1786_

" _George had a letter today from Lord Polesworth, inviting him to take his father's seat in Parliament. The seat is in Lord Polesworth's pocket and so George would be assured of winning the by-election._

" _George has never expressed an interest in running for Parliament and so it had not crossed my mind that he might do so and when he told me of this I was filled with dread. I know I would not be a good political wife but I would need to endeavour to be one for George's sake. But then he said he had no intention of taking the seat. I asked him if it was because of me, and he said in part, but not entirely. He said he had thought a lot even before we met about what sort of estate owner he wished to be and had come to realize that he did not like the idea of being away from his estate for as much time as his father and grandfather had been, that he would rather put his time into improving the estate's farms and breeding programme, and doing what good he could around our neighbourhood. If there was a position he did covet, it was that of magistrate, and if such a vacancy did come up, he would pursue it. We should still go to town for a little of the season, to retain our connexions for Fitzwilliam's sake, and of course we would always go to the Lakes, but he hoped to be at Pemberley for the greater part of the year._

" _This made me very happy as it is exactly what I should want, but I was very glad that George was not just making a sacrifice for my sake. I hope he does have opportunity to become a magistrate for I can think of no wiser or fairer person to hold the post."_

Elizabeth smiled, for while generally she had felt her husband more like his mother, here she saw signs of the son within his father, these men who had contributed so much to a thriving estate and were at heart country squires, even if their position in society was more than this. The name Wickham soon caught her eye within an entry; she had known it was coming, of course, and finally here it was. Old Mr. Darcy had made arrangements for his steward to be pensioned off but had allowed for a period of transition, so as to have some continuity in the estate. Old Mr. Wickham had first been called out to assist his old schoolfellow from Eton with some legal matters, but having found little success as a barrister in town and with a new wife in the family way, he was soon convinced to take over management of the Pemberley estates. George Darcy was happy to have his friend take up the post, but Lady Anne's first impression of the man's wife was not so happy: _"I cannot like her – she reminds me too much of Mrs. Sinclair and it seems her spending has put her poor husband in debt and made it attractive for him to abandon the law – although I suppose a man with so few connexions as he has might not ever have made a prosperous career of it. I would wonder how a good man could have married such an awful woman but that I have already seen an example of the same over at Berewick."_ She endeavoured to like Mrs. Wickham, Elizabeth read, aware that her first impressions had not been accurate when it came to Lady Ellen or Mrs. Sinclair, but every encounter with Mrs. Wickham only seemed to reinforce her initial dislike, although she did endeavour to assist Mrs. Wickham and treat her kindly during childbirth. Anne vehemently disliked that the child had been named George, but said nothing of it.

The family came out of mourning, and Lady Anne was required to return to entertaining. She returned to the redecoration of her chambers, as well, giving up on the dilatory Wyatt and bringing in a local man from Derby, Robinson.

" _November 7, 1786_

" _Mr. Robinson had all of the furniture moved into my bedchamber, save the bed, to show me what it would look like. It is all so much gilt, and with the panelling and the brocade it will be very grand. Such is what I should want, I know – Mr. Darcy was right, at least in a way. But I am coming to realise that it will not be a place in which I can be comfortable – as I am now – and I feel the need of such a space. I do not know what is wrong with me, but some-times, particularly after I have hosted a dinner or ball, I wish to retreat from all society, even that of those two most dear to me, and just be comfortable and alone. My chambers will not be such a place, I fear._

" _November 11, 1786_

" _My dearest George knows me so well. He sensed I had grown a little reluctant about the redecoration of my chambers, and when he asked, I told him why. He proposed I should have Mr. Robinson incorporate a closet into the plans, a place hidden away where I can go whenever I wish and retreat from all society. It is such a delightful idea and I adore him for it, but I think I adore him still more for understanding me so well as to know what I need, and for not judging me for needing it._

" _Little Fitzwilliam is well. I wonder how long I can continue to call him little, as he is growing so quickly. I am sure he will be at least as tall as his father, for he is already tall and lanky as a boy._

" _Mrs. Wickham says she cannot wait until her boy is older so Fitzwilliam can have a playmate within the nursery. I suppose that will be nice, but I fear the son of such a woman cannot turn out well, if he is brought up under her influence. I do wonder at men like Mr. Wickham and Mr. Sinclair, who can be so good themselves and yet can be wed to such awful women. I do not know enough about how the Sinclairs were wed, tho – perhaps their marriage was arranged. But Mr. Wickham chose for himself, George says, and I think he chose very poorly."_

"So that is how the secret room came to be," thought Elizabeth. She had sensed it was thus, that it had been created specifically as a refuge for Lady Anne, one that was needed when she suffered yet another miscarriage. The poor lady at least had the comfort of her surviving son, but the event only increased her worries for his health, particularly now that he shared the nursery with another boy: _"I fear someday he shall catch ill and get our Fitzwilliam ill. I wonder, too, whether it is right to raise two boys in the same nursery when they have such different expectations. But George says it will be good for Fitzwilliam to have a playmate and I should not worry over it."_ Worry Anne did, however, and she also gave up in her efforts to like Mrs. Wickham, whose extravagant spending and flirtations with everyone from a footman to the rector of Lambton gave Lady Anne reasons to _dislike_ her. The only man in the neighbourhood it seemed she did not attempt a flirtation with was George Darcy, and whether this was caution in approaching her husband's benefactor or observation that he was very devoted to his wife could not be told.

Elizabeth read on, through Christmas and her husband's adorable devouring of as much pudding as he was allowed, into a new year.

" _January 3, 1787_

" _I had a letter from Andrew today that Lord Lynton had died. Andrew and Lady Ellen and the children had gone out to Tremont for Christmas, fearing their father's health to be failing, and they were correct for he died the day after Box-ing Day._

" _Andrew is named the executor of Lord Lynton's will, which makes an awkward situation still more awkward, for Tremont itself is now the possession of the new Marquess of Lynton, who cannot want them to remain there, not when Lady Ellen draws so much of the family fortune away from the estate and into Stradbroke. I feel very badly for her, since this will be her last opportunity to be at Tremont – I doubt the new Lord Lynton shall ever invite her. And so she must say goodbye to her childhood home – a home I believe she loves far more than Stradbroke – in the knowledge that she can never return."_

"Poor Lady Ellen," murmured Elizabeth.

"Hmm?" asked Darcy.

"I had never thought about Lady Ellen's never being able to go back to her childhood home. It must be difficult."

"I am sure it is, although I believe she did paintings of her favourite places, so that she could remember them."

"That must be a great consolation. It makes me wish I was more talented in that regard, although in truth it is less a lack of talent and more a lack of application. Drawing never interested me."

"There are some who say someday we shall be able to take the images from a camera obscura and capture them for all time, so perhaps you may yet have your own sort of paintings."

"Perhaps – we have seen much innovation, during our lives."

"If Lord Lynton has died, I suppose that means George Wickham has been born, in what you have read so far."

"He has – and your mother was not at all enamoured of his mother."

"I am not surprised. I think sometimes we would have all been spared a great deal of vexation if old Mr. Wickham had just made a more sensible choice in wives."

Elizabeth smiled. "Indeed we would have."

He returned to his book, and Elizabeth to the journals, feeling particularly the pain and worry of an entry later in January:

" _January 25, 1787_

_Dear God, not the measles again. It is Fitzwilliam who is ill, so young George Wickham cannot be blamed, and I fear he shall fall ill as well. O God, please help my little boy – if he is to be all I shall ever have, please protect him, please let him live to bury me."_

Both of the boys lived, of course, but in the following months poor Anne worried over every sniffle, every illness. The Fitzwilliams and Darcys spent the summer months together, at Pemberley, the Lakes, and Stradbroke, and Anne was much happier about Edward as a playmate for her son, the two boy sometimes joined by Andrew, when he was not about his studies. As the shooting and hunting seasons approached, the Darcys planned a smaller house party, one that would help them maintain their connexions without taxing Anne as a hostess too much, and Elizabeth was pleased to find them settling into some equilibrium in their married life; she recalled her early marriage to Darcy and how they had come to do so as well, how much happier she had been once they had begun spending more time in the country.

Anne had ordered a copy of Hepplewhite's Guide, and her entry upon beginning the reading of it was one of eager anticipation. However, it became apparent in subsequent entries that she understood her rooms to be outdated, that she was not happy at all with the furniture, and yet she did not wish to ask her husband for the necessary expenditure to have them redone again. She was happy with her little closet, the place where she could truly be herself, and cared little for the rest. "And it was for the rest that I judged you," thought Elizabeth guiltily.

There were happier developments as well, however; George Darcy was approached for a vacant position in the magistrancy; he accepted it gladly, and there could not have been a prouder wife than Lady Anne, upon his doing so. Elizabeth wished her own husband could have known his wishes as regarded being a magistrate sooner, for she could not help but think that his indicating an early interest in old Mr. Sinclair's vacated position would also have saved them both a great deal of vexation.

* * *

Elizabeth returned to the journal again the next evening, and although she had known it was coming at some point, was not prepared for the entry in February of the following year that must have broken her relations' hearts.

" _February 4, 1789_

" _My hear breaks for poor Andrew and Ellen – they have lost little Ellen to the smallpox. George and I had no notion there was even illness at Stradbroke until Andrew's letter. Such a sweet little girl, now gone from the world – how cruel fate is sometimes! And if it would have struck for anyone I am surprised it did not do so for Cathy's daughter, so sickly as she always is. Not that I would wish for the death of anyone's child, even Cathy's, even after what she did. Poor little Anne is innocent in that._

" _I wish I could go out to Stradbroke and be a comfort to poor Ellen, but I cannot contemplate it while there is still illness in their house. I think I shall go to the nursery now and see my darling boy."_

After reading this, Elizabeth needed some time before she could return to the journal. Time to think about her poor aunt, who had lost a daughter at such a young age, and then many years later a beloved daughter-in-law. Lady Ellen, Lord Brandon, Darcy, Georgiana – they had all known significant losses already in their lives. Elizabeth understood, with a twinge of dread in her stomach, that this was all still ahead of her, that she would surely lose her parents, and might see the loss of a sister, a niece, a nephew, or even one of her own children. Those losses she had known this year had been difficult, but they could not compare to what was coming – and what might come.

Seeking a distraction from such unhappy thoughts, she read on and found that George had broached the need to bring on a governess to his wife. Like Elizabeth, she had understood the necessity of it, and yet she could not like that it meant her only son was growing up. They interviewed a number of candidates for the position – which made Elizabeth grateful Miss Fischer had been available at the right time for her own family – eventually choosing a Miss Wallace, who reported back to her mistress that her pupils were as Elizabeth would have expected them to be.

" _March 27, 1789_

" _Miss Wallace says Fitzwilliam is a model student. The Wickham boy, I gather, is not so much so. I hope he does not hold Fitzwilliam back and I suppose we shall have to do something if he does. Perhaps, tho, it will be good for Fitzwilliam's confidence to be schooled with a boy inferior to him in both standing and application to his studies. They are both intelligent, I think, but Fitzwilliam is so much more serious. Sometimes I fear he is too serious, particularly now that he is learning deportment. He looks too sweet when he bows to me, but I fear I cannot take him into my arms so often as I used to do, and must curtsey back to him. At least he is still here. It will break my heart to see him off to school, but at least we still have some years for that. I wish his younger siblings had survived – then at least I would still have them for some years more. But I suppose I should be grateful that I have one child who has lived so long, when there are some couples who are entirely childless. At least I do have my strong little darling boy."_


	35. Part 1, Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

Although they had not seen Wickham in the week since Georgiana had purchased the Yankee Wind, she still took caution in going ashore, only venturing out with Bowden close by. The Ramseys often went with her as well, but on this day Captain Ramsey was escorting Catherine in some additional purchases for Lydia – items to make up her baby's layette. Lydia was of a size that if the passage was slow, there was a chance she might become the second woman in their family to give birth on board a ship, and Clerkwell had been quite vehement that he did not want anything to do with the event until Moll – fortunately nearby – had stated he'd hardly done anything the last time. This was said loudly enough for several seamen to overhear it, and had thus spread rapidly through the ship, the general consensus being that Kelly had put a stopper in the old surgeon.

Georgiana generally only walked so far as the Georgiana – how odd it was, to think of a ship as possessing her name, and yet there the ship was, having her gilt applied by one of the men they'd hired. This was the main alteration the ship had required – Marley had given it a careful inspection and said there was little else that could not wait until she was in Portsmouth. They had been fortunate that, as they are wont to do in foreign ports, an out-of-work British master's mate had heard of the Caroline's being in Baltimore and come to call on Matthew. The young man – Perry, was his name – was offered work on the Georgiana rather than the full midshipmen's berth of the Caroline, and Captain Ramsey seemed pleased with him thus far. Matthew had promised that the other young gentlemen would also take turns on the clipper, for it would be a boon to their education to learn more about sailing such a ship. They had enough of a muster to sail her home, therefore, save a cook, which had proven difficult to recruit. They could manage without one, so long as the ships remained in consort and food could be passed between them, but it would make matters a great deal easier if someone could be found.

"Lil' barky's lookin' sweet today," observed Bowden. This was what all the men of the Caroline had taken to calling the Georgiana, for most of them already called their ship _the barky_ , but had adopted the clipper into their affections as well, she being a comely ship now owned by their captain.

"She is indeed," replied Georgiana. They were nearly done with the gilding, and while Georgiana found it exceedingly strange to see her own name at the stern of the ship, the golden letters did give it a far greater elegance than the chipped red paint of her former name. Georgiana had been aware of some manner of commotion behind her, but as commotion was a natural part of any seaport, she had paid it little mind. The commotion seemed to be increasing in volume, however, and so finally she turned around.

What she saw horrified her. There was a gathering about the tavern there, but what those gathered were about depended upon the colour of their skin. Black men, women, and children were being led about reluctantly, many of them weeping, clinging to each other with agonised faces. The white men, meanwhile, were bidding on them. What drew her to this horror rather than making her turn away, Georgiana did not know, but she stepped closer and closer, until she could see the faces of the slaves, hear the auctioneer about his business. The crowd was close – Bowden did not like it and was right to not like it, but upon his first nervous "Milady," Georgiana told him she needed to see this and apologised for putting him in such a situation.

She watched as men were sold: one who seemed happy with the sale – had his former master been so cruel that any change was beneficial? – and another who was far more reluctant. Then the next slave was pulled up beside the auctioneer, was dragged away from a girl of nine or ten years of age, both of them sobbing. The bidding began, and Georgiana's mind began struggling with calculations – calculations as to what the purchase of this woman and her apparent daughter would do to the Stantons's income for the year, income that had already funded the purchase of a ship. The figures muddled in her head and she decided it did not matter: they could stop work on the house, the ship, they could retrench, but this poor woman, this poor child, would only have one chance to remain together.

"Bowden, if they will not recognise me, will you raise your hand?" asked Georgiana. "I intend to purchase this woman and her daughter. Keep going until she is purchased, regardless of the cost."

"Aye, milady," was Bowden's response, but the auctioneer did recognise her, with nary a strange look to see a woman bidding at auction. There were several others bidding and Georgiana felt the tension of being in a strange place, a strange time, not entirely sure what the rules were here. She did not have sufficient money to pay for these slaves immediately – she would need to return to the Mechanics Bank – but she supposed there was little they could do, if she won and needed to withdraw the funds to complete the transaction.

Still, the bidding continued, and she was about to raise her hand again when she felt a touch upon her shoulder.

"Lord Stretford!" she exclaimed.

"Allow me, child," was all he said, raising his hand again and again until the last opposing bidder indicated his acquiescence. The auctioneer rapped his gavel, and the woman was led off, her child now being pulled to her place beside the auctioneer.

"That is her child," said Georgiana. "Please, we must – "

He raised his hand. The poor child looked to him with hope, for she had watched the sale of her mother keenly, and when his hand was raised again and again, and was finally the last to raise, the girl collapsed, weeping, and was pulled unceremoniously away so they could bring forward the next slave.

"Come, Georgiana," said Lord Stretford. "If we stay, I fear you will want to save them all, and while I wish I could, I cannot draw too much attention to myself on what was meant to be an unofficial trip. Even to buy all at this auction would be a little thing, a small group saved. The only thing that will save them all is abolition."

Georgiana felt the pain of what he said, but allowed herself to be led away. "How did you come to be here? I thought you were still some days away from Baltimore!"

"I finally saw sense and hired a horse to ride, rather than trying to traverse what these Yankees call roads in a carriage," said he. "I arrived here and learned the auction was imminent."

Georgiana was surprised to find he was leading her around the crowd so that they could go _into_ the tavern, and smiled faintly at the thought that he had disliked her presence in so reputable an establishment as Mivart's Hotel when she had now been within both a coffee house and a tavern, here in Baltimore. They were in the tap-room, and she gazed about curiously until Lord Stretford approached a man seated at a table and began completing his transactions. It became apparent that he had purchased far more than just the woman and her daughter, and Georgiana counted fourteen total slaves, that he had bought. He was very particular about ensuring the paperwork was in order, so it took a long time before they left the tavern, his papers in hand, and walked around to the side of the building. There, the slaves he had purchased were prodded forth towards their new master. Georgiana saw immediately that his endeavours had been aligned with hers, that he had sought to keep families from being separated. Among them were a husband and wife, with a baby so young it must still have been on the breast, another apparent family of five, and a very young man and a pregnant woman who could do nothing but cling together, weeping deeply.

"This way, please," said Lord Stretford. He offered Georgiana his arm, and Bowden followed them a pace behind, the slaves all in file behind him. They walked to the quay beside the Caroline, and then Lord Stretford turned toward his new purchases and said:

"You are all free now, and I will have the papers made up to prove it." The reaction to this was stunned shock – it could not be otherwise – and they all watched him with confusion on their countenances as he continued, "If you choose to stay here, you will be free, but must ensure always that you have your papers on hand. If you wish to travel with me to England, however, I can say more surely that you will not be pursued as a slave once you set foot within that country, and that I will find _paid_ employment for each of you there, either on my estates or elsewhere. Please step forward, and if you wish to go to England, tell me your occupation – tell me what skills you have, what you did for your former masters."

Even with these clarifications, this was not a request that could be easily comprehended or complied with. They all stared at him, their faces marked with disbelief, confusion, until finally the father of the family of five stepped forward, his hand in his wife's.

"Name's Jim, Master," he said. "I picked tobacca, as did me womm'n, 'an me chil'ren will soon, 'an we want to go to England."

"Then you shall," said Lord Stretford, "but pray do not call anyone else your master, now. A man may be considered master of his estate in England, but to you he will be an employer, not a master. In my own case, I am a marquess, I am called Lord Stretford, and it is proper to call me "my lord," if you wish for employment on my estates. Your children are yet too young, but I promise you will earn sufficient that they shall not have to work."

How much of this was comprehended, Georgiana could not tell. Certainly, the man accepted Lord Stretford's offer warily, but this seemed mostly grounded in disbelief. The weeping man and woman stepped forward next, with much the same result. The mother and young girl Georgiana had wished to save were last, and when finally they stepped forward, the mother stated that her occupation had been as a cook.

"A cook?" asked Georgiana. "Oh, then you would oblige me greatly if you would be willing to serve as a cook aboard one of the ships we are to sail in. I know you may not have acted as a cook aboard a ship before, but I assure you we would be much happier with someone who had no experience in such things, rather than no experience at all."

The woman stared at Georgiana as though she had two, or possibly three, heads. Finally, she said, "I cook where you want me to cook, mistress, s'long as my girl can stay wi' me."

"Call her 'my lady,' when you address her," said Lord Stretford. "She is not your mistress in the manner you are used to, but she is an English lady whose husband is what we call a baronet: Lady Stanton."

" _My lady_ ," said the woman, nodding.

Georgiana returned her nod. "The girl is your daughter?"

"Yes, _my lady_."

"We will pay you for your work on the ship for the entirety of the passage, and I expect we shall need a cook of longer duration, so you may have employment with my family for as long as you wish it. And your daughter shall stay with you, of course."

The woman burst into tears. "Thank'ee, my lady, thank'ee."

"What is your name?" asked Georgiana.

"I was called Hanny, my lady," the woman said, and something in her tone made Georgiana feel certain this had not been her choice.

"Would you rather be called something else, now?"

"Hannah Carroll, my lady, and my daughter's Priscilla, not Prissy."

Georgiana nodded. "I am pleased to hire you, Mrs. Carroll. My husband is a naval captain, and the ship you see before you is his command, but you will be serving on a smaller ship. We will be very glad to have you, and Priscilla will of course travel with you, although she is too young to work."

In the silence that followed, Lord Stretford said, "For now, we'd best get you all aboard this ship, until I can speak to my – nephew – about your passage. He is the ship's captain – Lady Stanton's husband."

They all stepped abord the frigate, most of them hesitant, still stunned, and as they did so, Georgiana said, "there will be no difficulty with space for their passage. I – I purchased a ship, a Baltimore clipper. I wanted something that could serve as a yacht for our family, so Matthew need not give up the sea. She is moored just down there. We have a crew to sail her, but there is ample room for passengers, and I would pay anyone who will haul upon a line or otherwise lend assistance, when it is needed."

"You bought a ship, eh?" asked Lord Anglesey, contemplating this intelligence as the former slaves stepped down onto the Caroline's decks. He laid his hand on Georgiana's shoulder. "I expect it's what Matthew needs, but would never ask for."

"Yes, precisely."

Lord Stretford walked towards the companion-ladder, to go below to the cabins. "There was a time when I had hoped he would stand for a bye-election, in Bishop's Barrow. Harrowby has been a disappointment, and he will step aside for a new candidate once I return, whether he wants to or not."

Georgiana shook her head. "I do not think Matthew will be in England frequently enough to serve as a Member of Parliament."

Lord Stretford nodded. "I had a sense it would be thus, although not that it would be because his wife had purchased a yacht for him, and they would be off sailing the world. I do not mind it, for I already had a candidate in mind that I like very well: your cousin Andrew."

"Andrew? Oh – oh yes of course, Andrew." Lord Stretford's first mention of her cousin was a shock, but rapidly Georgiana came to understand how very well her cousin was suited for the role. His father was healthy and he might have a great many years in the Commons, years when he might be directed back towards a purpose, might be mentored in politics by a widower like himself.

"You approve of him for the role, then?"

"Oh yes, very much so. If I had thought on it more, I might have landed upon him myself, and then sought to convince you of his merits."

"I am long since convinced of his merits, and I think we have a great deal in common, although we have experienced it many years apart. You see – politics – it can fill a man's life, when the things he thought would fill it are gone."

"I would be grateful, if it could do so for him."

"Politics can never heal the wound entirely, but it can prevent its smarting, its stinging, in a way it might otherwise have done for many years more."

"I understand, and I am very glad you have chosen him," said Georgiana. "And what of your time in the American capital? Did you make any progress?"

He shook his head, frowning. "I fear not, on either topic. These fourteen souls are the only ones who have gained any benefit from my presence here."

They had entered his cabin, and he made to open the door to the great cabin, to allow Georgiana to pass through, but she said, "Wait, please. There is something else I need to tell you of."

He withdrew his hand from the door handle and nodded.

Georgiana took a deep breath. She had determined that since she and Matthew knew his secret, he should know hers, should understand the strange connection she held to their other new passenger, but it was difficult to decide how to go about it.

"Mrs. Darcy's sister, Mrs. Wickham, will be travelling back with us to England," she said finally. "Her husband is a man who has a long history with my family – and with myself." She told him that Lydia had been abused by her husband, told him of her own near elopement, of her sense that she might have been the one to suffer instead, and when she had finished, she said, "I thought it was only fair that you knew, since Matthew and I know your secret."

He nodded. "You did not need to tell me of this – unlike my secret, there has been no lasting impact from yours. But I am grateful for your trust in me, and know that I do not judge you, nor Mrs. Wickham, nor my Marianne. It is always the women who pay the greater penance for such a mistake, and I am glad that did not happen for you. Still more, if you had eloped with that man, you would not have married Matthew, and you would not be a part of my family."

* * *

Three days after Lord Stretford's return, HMS Caroline was towed away from her moorings and set sail for England, trailed by a very sultry consort. Said consort waited until they were in open ocean to begin cutting capers, but then cut capers he did, although Georgiana suspected Captain Ramsey would say he was testing her capabilities, if asked. She only learned later that evening – when the Ramseys and Lydia were brought over by boat to the Caroline to dine – that he had ceased cutting across the Caroline's wake with the Georgiana's deck pitched at a terrifying angle because it had been making poor Lydia nervous.

The transfer between the two ships via bosun's chairs made Lydia nervous as well, but they had thought it right to allow Mrs. Carroll this first day at sea to adjust before she was expected to cook dinner for them. This was a degree of consideration Catherine did not think the cook had been accustomed to, but she was granted it nonetheless, and they all dined with the Stantons and Lord Stretford in the Caroline's great cabin. Lydia was very quiet, both during and after dinner, but Lord Stretford regaled them with tales of the horrors of the roads between Baltimore and the American capital, and then after dinner Georgiana and Matthew played a duet to entertain them, and Lydia did say after it was done that the music had been really pretty and they both played so well. Perhaps it was right that Lydia be quiet and contemplative, on this first day of sailing back towards England.

Their cabins on the Georgiana were plain, but Catherine still liked hers, for the space she shared with Andrew was much larger than what they had known on the Caroline. Lydia's was smaller and simpler, but she hadn't seemed to care about such things when they had shown it to her. Catherine knocked and slipped into the cabin, asking, "Is everything well, Lyddie? You were awfully quiet, during dinner."

"I was thinking about accomplishments."

"Accomplishments?"

"Yes, about how well how well Georgiana plays, and I know she does all the other things that are expected, and look at what a kind and handsome husband it got her. And rich, too, if they can afford to buy a _ship_ and all those nice dresses she wears."

"I think Georgiana would be willing to teach you, if you wished to learn during the journey back."

"No," sighed Lydia. "It's too late, now. I made a foolish choice and I have to pay for it for the rest of my life. And anyway, I doubt I'll have much time in the future, for learning new accomplishments."

* * *

As Lydia was contemplating Georgiana's accomplishments, so was Georgiana contemplating her. She was even more glad she had purchased the ship, for it meant they would not need to be in each other's company constantly. For such thoughts, she felt guilty, and indeed it was guilt that made her glad she did not need to see Lydia so often: guilt that her own escape had left Wickham free to manipulate Lydia. Of course the choice had ultimately been Lydia's, but still, Georgiana knew how convincing he could be.

Georgiana had escaped poor Lydia's fate, and ultimately married Matthew instead. She could not say their married life had been any more steady or stable than that of the Wickhams, but still there was a strong difference: Matthew was an honourable man who cared deeply for his wife, and Wickham was not. "And now we have our compromise, our middle way, and things will be more stable," Georgiana thought.

The evening was fine and so the gunport in the sleeping cabin had been left open, and Georgiana went to it, gazing outside at the blue expense of ocean. They would never see George Wickham again: he could not follow his wife back to England and risk being taken up as a deserter, and Georgiana did not think it likely that she and Matthew would ever return to America. So they were leaving George Wickham behind for good, and she was very glad of it.

Her dreams had not returned, and Georgiana hoped they never would. This meant that her last memory of that world was of being grabbed by Wickham in the hallway, but this did not unsettle her. Matthew would have found her, either in that hallway or wherever Wickham attempted to take her, and the outcome would have been the same as it had been in the great cabin of this ship. He would have found her, and he would have saved her. Despite all they had been through, though, Georgiana was still grateful for living in this world, the one where he had given her the means to save herself.


	36. Part 2, Chapter 1

**PART TWO**

August, 1819

**Chapter 1**

As summer turned to August, so Caroline Bingley drew closer to giving birth, and Charles's departure for town was soon followed by the happiest of events: the appearance of the Bingley carriage in Pemberley's drive. It had been a longer drive than usual, for Jane and the children, and the reason for this was the cattle tethered to the back of the carriage, for Charles had purchased ponies for both of his daughters, and once Bess had begun to ride, Jane had determined she should also return to the saddle. Thus they arrived with a staid hack gelding and a little Shetland pony – Emma had yet to show interest in her own mount – and while Elizabeth's immediate concerns were to embrace her sister and nieces and get them all settled into the house, the next day she proposed they all go on a ride together.

The pony proved to be a good match for her little mistress – too good, Darcy observed drily – for although Ginger was the smallest creature in the stables, she was positively bristling with attitude and energy, her fluffy mane and tail bobbing about as she and Bess careened fearlessly from one debacle to another. A great many leaves were consumed, from the hedgerows; they jumped the stream when Darcy turned to check on the other children; and he was required to allow the boys to begin cantering outside the paddock after either Bess or Ginger – or perhaps the both of them – decided it would be a lark to have a gallop across the field approaching Pemberley Woods. It could not be said that Ginger was always under control, but Bess never came off, and as she was more wont to giggle at these predicaments than show concern, eventually Darcy came to trust in her horsewomanship. The other children were quite happy about the lifting of the cantering restriction and demonstrated the more disciplined control over their ponies they had learned from Darcy. Elizabeth and Jane brought up the rear of their long file of animals and riders, Jane mounted serenely and elegantly, as was her way, and Elizabeth endeavouring not to giggle every time Bess and her fluffy little mount broke away to terrorise the countryside again.

It was a delightful ride, a delight Elizabeth thought they would repeat again the next day, but for the awful news in the papers from Manchester that the cavalry had charged on a large crowd gathered there to demonstrate for representation in Parliament. There had been many deaths and an even greater number injured, and although they all did still go out for a ride – the children had begun asking if they could go almost from the moment of their waking – the news had a dampening effect on the adults of the riding party. It was particularly so for Elizabeth, who had been reading in Lady Anne's journal of the "awful events in France," and could not but allow it to colour her thoughts regarding the tragedy in Manchester. The French Revolution had been a lesson in just what a mob could do, but she could not think it right that people – including children – had been killed and maimed in such a manner. The Peterloo Massacre, the paper had called it. Nor could she think it right that Manchester had no representative in Parliament beyond the two MPs for Lancashire, while little Bishop's Barrow returned one and was firmly in Lord Stretford's pocket. At least he was a good man, but not all those who held such boroughs were thus – surely more than a few were in the pockets of men like Laurence Sinclair. People had a right to demand fair representation in Parliament without dying for it, Elizabeth thought, and they ought to be listened to long before they turned into a mob.

Watching the children – particularly Bess's antics – did cheer her, but the cheer did not last. Poor Miss Sawyer's latest battle with little Charles to get him to eat anything other than his mother's milk had proven messy and futile, and Elizabeth was summoned up to nourish him as soon as she re-entered the house. Jane's presence at dinner was some cause for happiness, but in the drawing-room after Elizabeth took up the journal she had been reading to learn that Lady Anne was pregnant again. Thus, another heartbreak would be coming, even if Lady Anne's entries of that time were more innocuous, giving Elizabeth further insight into the work that had been done on Pemberley's grounds:

" _January 14, 1791_

" _Mr. Repton came to meet with us after surveying the grounds yesterday. I had feared he would want to do nothing but landscape the park and put in some follies so as to make the landscape wild and picturesque, but he was very firm in saying he thought balance was important, and while the present formal gardens were rather unimpressive, he intended to expand their footprint rather than shrink it, so that they run out even farther from the terrace. On one side will be an ornamental kitchen garden, and on the other it is to be roses, for he asked my favourite flower and I told him and he said he would make me a very nice rose garden, with many trellises and a fountain in the middle. How pretty he made it sound! I shall be delighted to see it when it is completed. The park shall also be improved, and Mr. Repton intends to construct some manner of building there which can be used for entertaining in the summer. He is to do some drawings of different options to show to us."_

Repton had produced two very fine drawings, Anne wrote in a later entry: a gothic building of the new trend, and a classical building more in keeping with the house itself. The Darcys chose the latter, and it was to be called the Temple of Diana. They intended to use it as a place to hold entertainments in the summer months, and Elizabeth wondered why it had not continued in such a use. The building was still in good repair, but she suspected that like the house in the Lakes, it had reminded George Darcy too much of his wife after her death.

She read on, until the entry in March that made certain deeper pain would be coming, for poor Lady Anne.

" _March 31, 1791_

" _I had the quickening today, with the baby. It has been so long since I have felt the movement of a child within me, and I pray I shall give Fitzwilliam a younger brother or sister, a child that can remain here with me all the year round, when he goes to school."_

"Oh, but you will not, and I am so sorry for it," Elizabeth thought. Anne's pregnancy progressed, and the Darcys went to the Lakes for the summer and returned home to find some of Repton's work completed.

" _July 8, 1791_

" _Arrived home and learned my rose garden is complete. George and I had a walk there and it truly is a most wonderful place, particularly with the roses in bloom and smelling so lovely. My darling George asked if I was happy with it, for he had wanted something in his improvements of the grounds to be particularly for me. Oh, dearest man, how much I love him! How proud I am for all he has done to improve the farms and the grounds!"_

The Temple of Diana took longer, but eventually it was also completed, George and Anne having a little private dinner there to celebrate, Anne by now so heavily, tragically pregnant that George had driven them there in the curricle. Then, finally:

" _September 2, 1791_

" _It pains me so to write of this, but George recommended I try, to help with my grief. The baby was stillborn. It was a boy. I had not thought anything to be wrong, but now that I think back, he was not so active as George or Fitzwilliam were in the days before I gave birth._

" _We buried him next to George. It pains me so to think of my children dead in the ground, but Fitzwilliam has been the greatest comfort and reminder that I am still blessed with him. He brought me roses cut from the new garden today and said 'I hope these will cheer you, mama.' Oh, my darling boy, what cheers me is you."_

Elizabeth wept a little, after reading this, wept in sadness for Lady Anne and tenderness for the both of them, Anne and her darling boy. "Thank God she had you," she whispered. "Thank God for the both of us, she had you."

She kissed him very thoroughly when they retired for bed that evening, telling him of what she had read. His countenance was pained as she spoke of it, and he said, "I remember the stillbirths very well – particularly that first one. I had hoped I would have a younger brother, and instead my father came to me and told me there would be no sibling, and my poor mother was having a difficult time with her grief. She took to her bed for weeks, each time."

"You cheered her very much, though. She hardly wrote anything for two months, except of how you brought her roses."

His eyes glistened for just a moment, but then he blinked. "I had not thought that was so important to her."

Sensing he was not ready to speak more on this topic, Elizabeth asked him about the Temple of Diana, and he confirmed that they had ceased using it after Lady Anne's death. "We ought to begin using it again," said he, "although I fear it shall need a great deal of cleaning inside and possibly some repairs by Jasper. Let us set the staff on it tomorrow. It would be nice to hold a picnic there, while Jane and the children are here."

"Oh, that would be wonderful – yes, let us do so."

* * *

She took Jane with her, to call on Abigail Sinclair the next day, and found Abigail returned to a more fretful demeanour. Abigail was unwilling to speak of it, however, except to say that Laurence was inviting all of his sporting friends for a house party in the winter, and Abigail worried over hosting them. Elizabeth had written to Jane about her concerns regarding Abigail and Laurence Sinclair, and the kind sympathy of an additional woman did seem to bolster Abigail's spirits, so that Elizabeth was feeling hopeful as she and Jane took their leave.

She was wrong, however, and she learned this when she entered her dressing-room to change for dinner that evening and found Abigail seated in a chair there and weeping. There was a fresh bruise on her face and she was bleeding from a cut on her mouth, which Sarah was dabbing at with a piece of flannel.

"She wished to see ye, ma'am," said Sarah. "We thought this would be the best way to do it quiet-like. Mrs. Reynolds and Timmy are the only others who know she's here."

"Please," whispered Abigail. "He cannot know I came here like this."

"Abigail, you cannot go back – not if he is to keep doing this. Stay here – we will protect you."

"You cannot protect me. I am his wife – I am legally bound to stay with him, and if I stay with you, it will just make trouble for you. He'll get a writ of habeas corpus, I know he will. In truth I don't know why I came here – there's nothing that can be done. I'm just – I'm scared, and I don't know what to do."

The cut had stopped bleeding, and Sarah stepped away with the flannel in her hand, slipping out of the room. Elizabeth knelt before Abigail and encouraged her friend into an embrace, which was all she could think to do at present. She knew little of such matters, but thought usually the nearest magistrate would be asked to intervene – a useless option, when Abigail's husband _was_ the magistrate.

"I do not know what to do, either," said Elizabeth, "but let me speak to my husband. There must be _something_ that can be done. Will you please stay here with us, until we can determine upon a course of action?"

Abigail shook her head. "It will just make things worse if I have to go back to him. The more reasons he has to be angry, the more he – " Still weeping, she rose to her feet and said, "I should go."

"Did you walk here? May I at least call you a carriage?"

"No – I must slip back into the house and hope he did not notice I was gone."

"There must be something we can arrange," said Elizabeth, for she had no notion of how Abigail had managed to walk all the way to Pemberley in such a state, and did not think she was fit to walk back again. She called Sarah back into the room and agreed with her maid's proposal that John could drive the young woman as far as the Kelly farm in the curricle, leaving her a much shorter distance to walk, and that Bernard could follow her at a discreet distance – Berewick was visible from the far edge of the Kelly farm – to ensure she got back safely.

With a feeling of helplessness, Elizabeth allowed Sarah to lead her friend away and set about changing herself into her dinner dress. She could not manage the buttons, and had to go to Darcy's dressing-room to request his assistance; her presence there could not but prompt questions. The answers were that no, her maid was not unwell, but she needed to speak to him later that evening. Her throat caught as she said this, and he looked at her with concern on his countenance.

"Is all well, within the Kelly family?"

"It's not them I wish to speak to you about," she said, clasping his hand. "Please – later. I do not want to upset Jane, and I know I shall if I come to dinner upset." Jane would need to be told eventually, of course, but Elizabeth would rather raise the topic with her sister once they had some plan to aid Abigail; to tell her before would fill her with worry, on a visit Elizabeth had intended to be a happy one, for her sister.

Darcy respected her request, although with apparent reluctance, and he was waiting there for her in their shared sitting-room after Sarah had changed her for the night. She had been reassured by Sarah that at least Bernard had seen Abigail home safely, but this was little consolation when _home_ seemed to be the least safe place for poor Abigail. This thought brought tears to her eyes as she entered the sitting-room, and Darcy was immediately taking up her hands and asking what the matter was.

"Abigail Sinclair came here today. She was – visibly wounded, by her husband's hand."

He sighed. "Elizabeth, I wish there was something we can do, but I cannot ask our magistrate to bind him when he _is_ the magistrate."

"There must be _something_ , that can be done. She was so frightened, Darcy. If he keeps on, I fear he will harm her irreparably, and they are both so young – she has decades of this ahead of her. Will you talk to him, reason with him?"

"Talking to Laurence Sinclair will not do any good," he said flatly. "He is not a man who can be reasoned with."

"Will you not at least try, please?"

"To what end? My intervening with him may only make matters worse."

"Please, we must attempt to reason with him."

Darcy sighed. "You know I have endeavoured to speak with that man on several difficult subjects – never has it gone well. It will not go any better on an even more delicate subject."

"We must do something. If you will not talk to him, then I will," Elizabeth stated.

"Absolutely not. That I must forbid."

"Oh you _forbid_ it, do you?" she asked hotly, her temper having finally snapped at the word _forbid_.

"Yes, I forbid it – do you think any sane man would allow his wife to attempt such a conversation with a man known to beat his wife? Do you think I wish to see you injured at his hands?"

"I believe one of us must do something, and if you will not act, then I must. What do you intend to do, lock me in the house?"

"Elizabeth!"

She did not respond, merely staring at him in her anger.

"What would you have me do? I have no legal right to help her! We are not even her family – it is terrible, but I have no power to help her."

"You may not have a legal right, but you do have a moral one," she said. "You are _not_ powerless. You are the most powerful man in this neighbourhood, even if he is the magistrate. His father is gone – this neighbourhood needs you to stand up and lead, to stand up to him, to do what is necessary."

She became aware as she was speaking that she had gone too far – much, much too far – and yet she could not stop. His countenance took on a drawn look, his eyes cold, and after some long, terrible moments, finally he spoke:

"Please. That is enough, Elizabeth."

Without another word, he turned and began walking towards his dressing-room. Elizabeth followed him and laid her hand on his shoulder. "My love, wait – "

"I would prefer to sleep alone tonight. I need to think." With this, he stepped through and closed the door behind him, leaving his wife staring at the door and wondering if she had just harmed her marriage irreparably. This was far from their first argument, but he had never reacted in such a manner before, never acted so coldly – at least since they had been married. She recalled it from his civilities as he had parted from her at Hunsford, and wept at the thought that she had brought him to such a state, that she had undone so very much.

She thought back on the argument and chastised herself for allowing her temper free rein. "Why – oh why – could I not make myself stop?" she whispered. "I shall apologise in the morning. It may take us time to get back to what we have been, but I must try."

She had no expectations of sleeping that night and laid down in the bed merely to have a more comfortable place to weep, although she did drift off in the early hours of the morning. Elizabeth awoke with the sun streaming through her windows to learn she would not be able to make her apology, for he was gone. There was a little note on the pillow beside her, which read, simply:

"Elizabeth,

"I am going to town to see if anything else can be done. Please stay here with your sister and the children. I will write when I find a resolution.

"DARCY"

She read it thrice, chastising herself again with each pass through the cold prose, the neat handwriting. She recalled his other letters, the terms of endearment he invariably included, and felt fully the pain of their omission. Elizabeth laid her head in her hand and wept again. "What have I done?" she sobbed. "Oh, what have I done?"


	37. Part 2, Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The Caroline and the Georgiana made another fast passage of the Atlantic, which the Georgiana's namesake thought best for Lydia, who could bear her child on dry land. Just _where_ within England she should do so, however, needed to be determined, and the Stantons went over to their yacht to dine and discuss this very thing.

Lord Stretford had absented himself from the conversation, being little connected to Lydia, and thus it was just the five of them seated around the little table, eating Mrs. Carroll's very fine meal. She had adapted admirably to cooking on the Georgiana's little stove, the ship being too small for the substantial Brodie that sat in the midst of the Caroline's berth deck, and they were treated to crab soup, hot sallad, ham, biscuits, fishcakes, potato pudding and apple cake.

"Please give Mrs. Carroll my compliments," said Georgiana, after asking Matthew to give her another little slice of the potato pudding, thankful she was still nursing William and could therefore eat whatever she wished. "This meal is delicious."

"Aye," said Captain Ramsey. "'Tis a shame we ran out of oysters, for she can work wonders with them. It's thanks to her we're all going to arrive home rounder and softer than we'd intended."

They all laughed, save Lydia, who merely bit her lip and asked, "Where _is_ home going to be?"

"I think it might be best if we took you to Pemberley first," said Georgiana. "My brother and sister will know what can be done."

"I would like to go to Longbourn, though, and see my mama," said Lydia.

"Lyddie, everyone in our neighbourhood at Longbourn believes your husband died at Waterloo," said Catherine. "For you to arrive there in the family way would cause a scandal."

"Well it won't be any less of a scandal if I go there later with a baby."

"Given enough time, we can have your mother spread it abroad that you remarried, in America," said Captain Ramsey. "Then your husband can die, and there should be no scandal in your living in Hertfordshire with the baby after that."

"But that could take years!" cried Lydia. "I want to go home to Longbourn."

"The scandal would be too great, Lyddie," said Catherine. "But there's nothing to stop mama and papa from coming out to Pemberley. We can send for them as soon as we get there. I am sure you recall how nice it is. You'll have your own room and likely a dressing-room too, and you'd have more help with the baby if he or she lived in Pemberley's nursery."

Lydia looked visibly pleased, upon hearing the words _dressing-room_ and _help_ , and made no more protests about going home to Longbourn.

"If you intend to go to Pemberley, we will need to part ways in the next few days," said Matthew. "It will be faster for you to take the Georgiana in to Liverpool and go overland to Derbyshire from there. It will be easier for you as well, Lydia – you will need to spend less time on the road in your condition." He looked at his wife questioningly, then, his question answered when Georgiana said,

"I shall go with you to Pemberley," for she thought things would go more smoothly where her brother was concerned if the party was accompanied by Georgiana. Still, it would be such a shock for the Darcys, to not only have them all appear at Pemberley uninvited, but to do so with a very pregnant Lydia. There was nothing she could do to warn them, however; they would hire post-chaises, once they reached Liverpool, so it was unlikely even an express would outpace them to Pemberley.

* * *

The next morning, Matthew informed Georgiana that they would need to part ways sooner than expected, for he thought it likely they were to have a storm as soon as that evening, and he did not wish to be transferring passengers in poor weather. Thus Moll was set to frantic packing, and Georgiana and Mrs. McClare took the children up on deck so as to be out of her way.

The breeze was already strong and the swell growing; Georgiana would have warned Caroline to be careful, but that it seemed Dog was already taking care for her, inserting herself between the child and the taffrail at the stern of the ship when Caroline stepped too close. Georgiana smiled, watching them, grateful the dog had proven to be exactly the friend she had wished for Caroline, and still more a sort of canine guardian.

Her thoughts were interrupted with the cry of, "Man overboard!" and Georgiana's stomach lurched. She heard the splash, the awful splash, and after a few stunned moments of inaction, her first priority was to get Caroline below decks, where the child would not watch a man drown. For that was the almost certain outcome of this scenario – most seamen could not swim, and unless by some good fortune one of his shipmates managed to put a cask or a rope in his way immediately, this man was going to do so. Then a certain screaming from Mrs. McClare at the stern told her it was not just any man who had gone over – it was Daniel McClare.

What happened next occurred in but a moment – a shocking, unbelievable moment. Dog put her paws upon the taffrail, sighted what had caused the woman's upset, jumped up and launched herself from the stern of the ship, an astoundingly graceful leap for a dog of her size. Georgiana thanked God she had already been moving toward her daughter, for Caroline screamed, "Dog!" and made every indication of an intent to follow after the creature. Georgiana grasped her arm and pulled her back, wrapping both of her arms about Caroline and holding her tight, the child shrieking, "Dog! Dog! Dog! Dog!" and William beginning to squirm between them, his contented drowsing of earlier completely upset.

Just when Georgiana was sure she had a firm hold of her daughter and was going to need to explain death to her again – a death that would be most painful to the child as that of her dear, loyal friend, and assuredly not to be undone by Dog's appearing alive some weeks later in Cavendish Square – Mrs. McClare began shouting, "Swim, swim Dog! Oh, keep a'swimming!" Georgiana gazed over the taffrail to what she had been avoiding watching, and found that instead of both a man and a dog drowning in the waves that surrounded them, Dog – dear, dear Dog! – was swimming strongly and had almost reached the flailing Daniel McClare. Matthew and Lieutenant Osborne had come running up to observe this as well, and Osborne gave the order to heave to, lower a boat, and signal to the Georgiana to assist as she could.

Dog had reached Daniel McClare long before the boat touched the water, and she was endeavouring to tow him back to the ship when the boat caught up with them and dragged both a sopping-wet man and a sopping-wet dog inside. Upon seeing this, Rebecca McClare collapsed to her knees on deck and began sobbing.

"Dog is in the boat now – she is safe – she will be back to you soon," Georgiana soothed her daughter. "She is a hero! She saved Mrs. McClare's husband's life. What a good dog she was."

Caroline sniffled. "I awweady know'd she's a good dog, mama."

It took longer than either Caroline or Mrs. McClare would have hoped for the frigate to be reunited with her boat, but eventually Daniel McClare and Dog were hauled back on board by their shipmates. Poor Dog looked exhausted – it must have been a tremendously difficult swim, particularly for a puppy still not completely grown – but upon hearing Caroline's whimpering she came over to the child. Georgiana released her daughter and set about soothing poor William as Dog first licked the tears from Caroline's face and then set about a vigorous shake of her wet body, spritzing them all with seawater. Once this was done, she sat and nuzzled Caroline as the child embraced her.

Georgiana's attention was on her daughter and Dog, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Matthew lay his hand on Osborne's shoulder and say something encouraging, likely that he had done well in managing this event. Caroline and her dog were allowed a lengthy reunion, but then Georgiana said they should go below to get the poor animal some water and food, and change Caroline out of her wet dress. She left Mrs. McClare to attend to her husband and took Caroline's hand to lead her below, Dog following readily. Caroline was changed by her mother, and Dog watered, fed, and towelled dry by Moll and Bowden. Both child and animal were very desirous of a nap after this, and Georgiana left them curled up on the floor of the sleeping-cabin, laying William – returned to peace – in his cradle, which had been tied up to hang in such seas.

She stepped into the great cabin and found Mrs. McClare looking nervously towards her, saying, "Is Dog well?"

"She is," said Georgiana. "Just a little tired, I think. They're all napping, now."

"I always liked her – good creature, that, so nice to Caroline," said Mrs. McClare. "I never thought as she'd save me husband's life, though."

"Just before it happened, I had been thinking of how glad I was, that I had purchased her," replied Georgiana. "I am far more than glad, now." This brought a little smile to the nurse's face, and Georgiana continued, "We ought to speak of where you are to go, given all of this. I would certainly understand if you wished to stay with your husband when the ships part ways."

"That's kind of you, milady, but it's my duty to stay with you and the children. I should ha' said this long ago, but I'm ever so grateful for this position, even though it weren't what I was thinkin' of when I went to sea with my Danny. I've been able to be with him much more'n I thought I would, and much more comfortable-like than it was when I was living with him among all the other men."

"It will not affect your position, if you choose to stay with him," said Georgiana. "But perhaps there is a better way to arrange things. Let me speak to Captain Stanton and see if he can be given leave from the ship to come with us. I believe one man can be spared easily enough, and I expect he will be kept in the sick bay at least for the day, anyway."

"Oh thank you, milady, I would be ever so grateful if he could come with us. Clerkwell thinks he broke a rib or two, so I'm not sure as he'd be ready to return to his duties before we reach 'ol Pompey, anyway."

"Regardless of whether he can at present, you should know he will be among the first I would wish to recruit, to form the Georgiana's permanent crew. So the two of you should always be able to sail together so long as you both remain in our employ."

Mrs. McClare's eyes grew teary again. "Thank you, milady – that's the best news as ever I heard, and we'll both be grateful to ye for the rest of our lives, I'm sure."

Georgiana nodded, realising there was no better time to broach a topic she had been intending to raise with Mrs. McClare for some time. "You should know, as well, that I would have no objections as to your having a child of your own – that is – if you have been – taking measures to avoid one."

"We haven't, milady," said Mrs. McClare, although such an admission did not seem to sadden her so much as the topic did Catherine. "I won't say as we've been tryin' specially, but we probably ought'a of had one by now, and we haven't. But I don't mind it, not at all, when I get to look after your dear little ones and know I'll get to see them grow up to better lives'n any children Danny an' I would've had."

"I understand, and we would be glad to have you with us for so long as to see them grow up," said Georgiana. She dismissed Mrs. McClare so the nurse could go and sit with her husband in the sick bay, and sent Bowden to see if Matthew was free to come and speak to her. Matthew was free, and inquired after Dog's health, readily granted Daniel McClare's absence, and told her to be ready to transfer to the Georgiana within the next few hours, for the seas were already rougher than he liked, to be putting such passengers on open boats.

Georgiana took her time in going through the cabins and ensuring they had left nothing she or the children would need. This was her ostensible purpose, but in truth she was saying her good-bye. When the Caroline returned to Portsmouth, she would be decommissioned and sold out of the navy. The Stantons now had a replacement for the role the frigate had served in their lives, but Georgiana had lived much of her married life within these cabins – she had borne her first child here – and she knew she would miss this ship, miss the ability to be here and reminisce, once she left.

It was on her mind, of course, that this was not the first time she had left the Caroline thinking the ship was to be sold out of the service. That time had been fraught with fear and concern, and thinking of it brought her mind to what had preceded it – particularly when she was about to be parted from Matthew in a similar manner. The confidence that they would soon be reunited, the coming storm, suddenly felt familiar in a way that sickened her stomach. When went up on deck to say her good-bye to Matthew, she thought she saw a similar reminiscence in his eyes as she clasped his hands.

"Perhaps I should not go," she whispered.

"All will be well, Georgiana. Ramsey and his men have sailed her across the Atlantic now, and all here is as it should be." He stepped closer, his countenance one of confidence as he murmured. "It is not the same as our last parting. I will see you at Pemberley, dearest – I promise."

She left him, therefore; left him with her worries lessened, if not entirely eliminated; left him in the knowledge that this voyage had done what she had hoped it would do. It could not remove the events of the Icarus from their memories, but it had enabled Matthew to move past them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd intended to post a note when the Baltimore clipper first appeared that you can see photos and video of Lynx, the ship on which the ex-Yankee Wind is based, at my blog, https://sophie-turner-acl.blogspot.com/. I've added a summary post where I'll be gathering up some other posts of interest later in the story, so it's right at the top with links to the Lynx posts.


	38. Part 2, Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

If someone had asked Mary what she felt about the size of the parsonage prior to Richard Stanton's taking up residence there, she would have said it was perfect for her family. Now, however, she felt it was much too small, for wherever she went, Mr. Stanton managed to be there. Upstairs in the nursery, he was reading _Fordyce's Sermons_ to poor Marianne; down in the drawing-room he was reading his own books and all too ready to give Mary a detailed criticism of what was to be found within their pages; she even twice found him in the kitchen, asking her servants about their sins.

It was worst on Sunday afternoons, when he would offer up a prolonged critique of her husband's church service over dinner. The first time he had done this had been while in company with the Winterleys; they customarily invited the Stantons to dine on Sundays, but had wisely ceased this invitation after Mr. Stanton's boorish behaviour at their table, and thus now his critiques were made within the family party. Mary could not be said to be the most sociable of people, but he was the only man she had ever actively disliked, and she sat through these lectures trying to keep her anger from her countenance. She was thus as he was speaking now:

" – inappropriate to suggest the path to Heaven is merely through good deeds, and not the strict avoidance of sin and repentance on those rare occasions when it is committed."

That was not at all what David had said, but he made no effort to correct his father. Mary did not know whether it was exhaustion, filial obedience, or old childhood fears that prevented his speaking up in his own defence, but for her own part she could bear no more, and said,

"David's sermons are very popular. People even come from neighbouring parishes, to hear them," she said. She longed to say that _David_ had not been defrocked for his manner of preaching, but knew that was certain to provoke more reaction than she could want.

"David tells people what they want to hear, not what they need to hear. It is no use if they feel good about themselves now but are then forced to suffer in Hell for all eternity," Mr. Stanton said curtly, glaring at Mary in a manner that said he was far angrier than he was letting on; perhaps he had thought of what she had been wanting to say without her coming out with it directly.

The rest of the evening was even more tense and awkward than they had been since Mr. Stanton's arrival, which left Mary to stew in the thought that a date for his departure was still uncertain, and likely to be far in the future. David had written to those he knew and thought might be able to help find a new church for his father, but had admitted it was likely nothing would bear fruit until Lord Stretford returned to England. His connexions were much broader, and at the very least he might invite his brother out to live at Rutherford for a time, giving his nephew and niece-in-law a break. Mary had not met Lucy Stanton, who had become by courtesy the Countess of Anglesey upon her father-in-law's receiving his marquessate, but she had the sense Lady Anglesey's will was exceedingly strong while her husband's was quite weak. The countess might be able to handle Richard Stanton where none of the rest of them had been able to.

Yet they had no notion of when Lord Stretford would return, and she went to bed that evening feeling very irritable.

"I am sorry, Mary," David said, upon seeing her. "I never expected you should have to suffer his company for as long as you have. If you wish, perhaps you should go visit one of your sisters or your parents for some weeks, with Marianne. I hope by then my uncle will have returned, and we can get matters settled as regards my father."

"I am not going to let that man chase me out of my home, nor leave you here all alone to deal with him."

"Think on it, at least. I would not fault you, if you wished for a respite from him," said he. "And I fear I may be around a little less this week. Colby has business in town and sent me a note earlier, asking if I could look after his parish. I replied and told him my father's presence would require me to be here as much as possible, but I could attend to anything urgent."

Reverend Colby was the vicar of nearby Lostock, a vapid but kindly little man: his was one of the parishes whose churchgoers often came to see David preach, but being neither of sufficient vanity or intelligence to care, he remained on good terms with David. He had looked after David's parish while David had gone to town and David would of course do the same for him.

"Of course you should help him – it is right that you do so. I shall manage things here."

* * *

David was indeed needed in Lostock the next day; a note arrived just after noon requesting his presence there, for one of the parishioners had suffered an apoplexy. He apologised as he took his leave, with a sympathetic gaze towards Mary; without his saying it she knew an apoplexy might mean last rites and an absence of some length. When his gig turned out of sight she squared her shoulders and went back inside the house prepared for battle, but to her relief it seemed Mr. Stanton had gone elsewhere, for he was not in the drawing-room.

Mrs. Barlow was looking after Marianne and would be until dinner-time, and Mary usually used this time to do her work around the parish, visiting with the local families and giving alms to the poor. She was hesitant to leave the house with her father-in-law in it and David gone, but thought at least she could see to the organization of the baskets for alms. She had been sewing winter clothes for some of the poorer children in the neighbourhood and set to distributing them into baskets for each family, mentally keeping count of the children in each and realising she had nearly forgot Sarah Thurston. The child was six years of age and of that short, slight thinness that came from poverty, so it would be easy enough to sew some additional garments for her.

Mary was pulling her workbag from the table to begin on a cloak for Sarah when she heard a tremendous howling from upstairs. "Marianne!" she gasped, picking up her skirts and running up the stairs two at a time, chastising herself for not realising Mr. Stanton might have gone to the nursery and poor Mrs. Barlow was not in such a position as to stand up to him if he was bothering the child.

What she found in the nursery was more than mere bother, however. Mrs. Barlow nearly ran into her in the hallway, in tears and speaking all in a rush: "just lifted up her skirt to climb onto the hobby-horse – that's all – tried to stop him – won't listen to me – poor dear child – "

Mary ran past her and into the nursery, finding there that Mr. Stanton was holding Marianne's hands down on the table there with one of his own hands, and striking them with a stick with the other. Where he had even got the stick she could not understand until she recalled that a stick and hoop had been among the old toys Lady Winterley had given to Mary. Poor Marianne was shrieking – she seemed frightened half out of her wits – but her countenance took on a look of relief when she saw her mother.

"Seven," said Mr. Stanton, about to strike the child again.

"Stop this at once!" exclaimed Mary.

"The child needs to learn proper behaviour, or she will grow up to be promiscuous," stated Mr. Stanton.

"There is nothing promiscuous a child her age could have done, and it is not your place to do this – it is for David to discipline his daughter!"

"As I am _his_ father, I have as much a right to do so as he does."

He swung the stick again. Both Mary and her daughter screamed, and Mary threw herself at him, seeking to do whatever she could to stop him from doing it once more. Her hands on his arm stopped him for mere seconds before he threw her off and struck her hard against the face.

"Eight," and poor Marianne's whimper.

Mary picked herself up off the floor and moved toward him again, but the blow this time was to her stomach. It knocked the wind out of her, and she could do no more than listen to the awful words, and the sounds of her daughter's pain:

"Nine. Ten," and then to Mary, "You should have just allowed me to finish."

He strode out of the nursery, and Marianne slid down from the chair where she had been made to sit and curled up beside her mother on the floor, both of them weeping. Mary took up her child's pink little hands and whispered, "Oh my baby, I'm so sorry."

There came the sound of more sniffling at the door and then Mrs. Barlow was helping them both to sit up, while Clara the maid applied dampened cloths to Marianne's hands, which did seem to soothe the pain for the poor child. Cook was with them as well, and she asked, "What can we do for ye, ma'am?"

Mary stated what she had understood as soon as she had come into the nursery. "We cannot stay here with him – none of us." She considered going to Lostock, to David, but realised she could not – not unless she was absolutely certain he would require his father to leave the parsonage. She was _not_ certain and this saddened her, but she would not risk Marianne's health and security again. Once she had settled this in her mind, the decision was easy: she would go her family, the family she knew would protect her. "Mrs. Barlow, would you please go the inn and hire a post-chaise for us, or if one is not available, two places on the Regulator towards Manchester? We will meet you there and once everything is settled you should go home and remain there. Cook, can your brother take you in for a time?"

"He could, ma'am, an' I know ye mean to protect us, but I don't like leavin' the house unattended. I could go an' get Horatio and have him stay here 'till things is resolved. He wouldn't have any chance of doin' me harm with a lad like Horatio about."

Horatio was Cook's nephew, a strong young man and the son of one of the local farmers. He helped around the parsonage three days a week, and Mary thought things might have gone very differently with Mr. Stanton if this had been one of those days.

"If you feel comfortable remaining with him here, I would appreciate it," said Mary. "You are under no obligation to serve Mr. Stanton if he asks for anything. And you will all be paid, even if you are not working here – you have my word on that. Clara, I would like for you to come with us to Pemberley, and assist us."

"Of course, ma'am. What'll ye be wantin' for the journey?"

"My reticule and a nightgown, and – and shawls for Marianne and I. It may grow chilly in the night."

Mrs. Barlow went off to the inn, and Cook and Clara to pack what Mary had requested. Cook carried what looked to be a heavier valise than one holding just the items Mary had mentioned, but as they had been quick about it, Mary was grateful. Her mind felt sluggish, disjointed, as though part of it was still caught back in those awful moments. She did check the money in her reticule to ensure it was sufficient for the journey, and finding it was, crept down the back stairs with her servants. Cook carried the valise and Clara her own box, and Mary walked with one arm on her daughter's shoulder and another holding the child's favourite doll.

They walked into the yard of the Red Lion thusly and found Mrs. Barlow standing beside a yellow bounder. Mr. Johnson was with her, but it appeared he had not been told the reason for Mary's precipitous flight, for shock crossed his countenance as he said, "Dear Lord, Mrs. Stanton, it cannot be."

"Mr. Johnson, before we set off, might I have a pen and paper? I need to write a note to my husband – he is in Lostock at present."

His countenance looked slightly less grave, and he led her and her child into a private parlour, then gave over pen, paper, and a wafer. Mary took them, seated herself and Marianne, and wrote quickly.

"David,

"Not long after you left, your father took it upon himself to discipline Marianne with a stick, on her hands. I tried to stop him, but he hit me as well and continued.

"I have sent Mrs. Barlow to her family. Cook remains but with Horatio staying over to ensure her safety. Clara will travel with Marianne and I to Pemberley, where I know we will be safe.

"Please know that I still love you but I will never live in the same house as him again, nor allow Marianne to be subjected to such violence,

"MARY"

There was one thing she left out because she could not bring herself to write it – there was a chance the blow to her stomach had done far more harm than disabling her for those awful minutes. Mary had missed her courses that month and so there was a goodly chance she was pregnant. She could not dwell on that now, though, and so she folded the paper and sealed it with the wafer, writing merely _David Stanton_ on the outside.

Mr. Johnson was waiting outside the door for her, and Mary realised tenderly that he had been guarding it. She handed him the note and asked, "Can you see this is given to my husband, and no-one other than my husband?"

"Put it in 'is hand myself, I will," said Mr. Johnson. "I've had 'em put some samm'iches and a flask 'o tea up in yer post-chaise."

"Thank you, that's very good of you," said Mary. He led her back out into the yard and Marianne was lifted up carefully into Clara's arms, then he assisted Mary in.

"Godspeed, Mrs. Stanton," he said. "Hope we'll be seein' you back soon."

"I hope so, too," said Mary.

When the chaise turned out of the yard and began bowling along the street, Mary allowed herself to return to weeping, Marianne held tight in her arms. Everything she had known, this whole happy life she and David had built together, it had all been upended. She had written that she would not live in the same house as Mr. Stanton, nor allow Marianne to do so, and yet knew she had no legal right to make such demands. She had a moral right, though, and surely David would feel that; what she did not know was whether he would feel it sufficiently to throw his tyrannical father out of his house – a man who had reinforced, likely in the same manner he had with Marianne, that David was supposed to _honour thy father_. Perhaps it was unfair of her, but she felt disappointed in him for allowing herself and her daughter to be placed in such a situation; she had not understood Mr. Stanton to be capable of such a thing, but surely David had known.


	39. Part 2, Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Elizabeth was grateful Jane did not press her, regarding Darcy's absence. She had been required to deviate from her initial plan to avoid telling Jane about Abigail's appearance at Pemberley the prior day, for Darcy's going to town to determine what ought to be done provided the easiest explanation for his sudden departure. Although Elizabeth's tone in telling her sister of these things had revealed how upset she was, dear Jane had thought it to be over Abigail's abuse, not any other cause.

"I am sure if anyone can find a resolution, he can," Jane had said reassuringly. "He will find a way of stopping that man from harming her."

Jane had sided wholly with Abigail in what was occurring, and in a way Elizabeth regretted that life had changed her sister from the young lady who had thought there was goodness in everyone, who held mildness in her heart towards all. George Wickham had been first to change that, followed by Doctor Alderman, and now Laurence Sinclair. It would have been no less than Jane deserved, to go through life without ever learning such a lesson, but perhaps that was impossible, even for someone like Jane.

Marshall had offered to send additional grooms out with them, but without Darcy, Elizabeth had not felt comfortable in taking all of the children out for a ride where Bess was included, and so instead they had been allowed to caper about on their ponies in the paddock – some, namely Bess and Ginger, capering far more than others. Elizabeth and Jane watched them, and Elizabeth thought further on what Jane had said.

Jane had expressed the same confidence Elizabeth had long felt in her husband: If there was a problem, Darcy could be relied upon to solve it, a confidence he had instilled in them ever since Lydia's elopement. This was the root of why Elizabeth had found herself flailing, in their argument; he had suddenly seemed unlike himself, and then had added to this by giving her a command. It was a command not to do something she would in truth never have done – she had recognised the rash foolishness of it, the rightness of what he said, even then. But with Elizabeth's temper, that command, when combined with his refusal to solve the problem, to _be himself_ , had gone off like a rocket.

Yet he was being himself, she realised; he was being his mother's son. He could negotiate easily enough with a man like George Wickham, where he had sufficient leverage, and he could speak to the other, more reasonable magistrates about Jemmy Brown's case. Yet to speak to an insufferable man where he had no leverage, no position from which to negotiate, would have been anathema to him, a man who had managed to make a complete muck of a difficult conversation with his own sister. Elizabeth had asked him to do that which was most difficult for him and she had done so unthinkingly, as though it was nothing more than asking him to forgive a farmer's rent, and when he had refused she had pushed still further. How awful she had been to him!

Jane must have sensed that she was upset, for she turned to her sister and said, "Lizzy, all will be well with Abigail – I am sure of it. Just give Fitzwilliam a little time, to find a resolution."

Jane embraced her then, and Elizabeth hugged her sister tightly, drawing comfort from her, although for reasons Jane did not know.

* * *

Elizabeth had been debating whether to write to her husband, and after she and Jane had brought four exhausted, happy children back to the nursery for Miss Fischer's lessons, she finally determined that she should. She excused herself from Jane, although she did not need to do so for long, for her note was as short as his:

"Darcy,

"My love, I asked too much of you and I am very sorry for it. You were right that nothing would have come from speaking to Sinclair."

It was on her mind to write "I know we both have strong tempers, and I wish you had waited to speak with me before you left, so we might have understood each other better," but although she stared at the paper for some time and contemplated it, she did not, and instead added,

"I ask for your forgiveness, for allowing my temper to get the better of me."

"With all my love,

"ELIZABETH"

She reread it several times through, still unsure whether these were the right things to say to him: she had never written to him when she had felt this vulnerable as regarded his affections – it had been a very long time since she had felt vulnerable at all. Still, she thought, it was better to write something than to not write at all, so she folded and sealed the letter, gave it to Parker to be posted, and returned to Jane and the children in the nursery.

* * *

Elizabeth and Jane dined together in the small dining-room; Elizabeth had spoken to Cook to ensure Jane's favourites were always on the table during her sister's time here, and their end of the table was quite filled with them. For her own part Elizabeth had little appetite, and ate only a little of the beef, a goodly helping of water-cress sallad, and one of the custard tarts which were Jane's particular favourites. The latter was so rich as to murder any last desire of hers to eat, and she sipped at her wine to try to settle her stomach as Jane finished eating.

Parker came in as the footmen were setting up the tea things in the drawing-room. He looked unsettled as he bowed to Elizabeth and said, "Ma'am, your sister is here – Mrs. Stanton."

"Oh Lizzy, did you invite Mary to come and visit with us?" asked Jane in a happy tone. "What a wonderful idea!"

"No, I did not – where is she? Is all well?"

"She's just outside, ma'am. I thought you'd want to see her straightaway."

"Yes, please bring her in."

Mary stepped inside, her daughter beside her, and both of her sisters cried out at the sight of her. Jane was faster, both to come to tears and to cross the room to embrace her, saying, "Mary, oh poor Mary, whatever has happened?"

"It wasn't David. Please, you must know that. It was his father." Mary gave them a brief account of what she and her daughter had suffered at the hands of Richard Stanton, and Elizabeth stole a glance down at Marianne's hands, feeling ill to her stomach at the sight of them. She encouraged them to sit and went to the door to speak to Parker about having some ice sent up to soothe the poor child's hands – even if someone had to be sent to the ice-house to cut more – as well as whatever remained of dinner that could be easily re-served.

"Is Mr. Darcy not here?" asked Mary. "I had hoped – "

Mary had hoped he would solve this, as everything else, Elizabeth thought, when Mary did not elaborate. In response, she merely said, "He is in town dealing with another matter, but I promise you and Marianne will be safe here. You may stay with us as long as you wish."

The footmen came in with the ice first, wrapped in a cloth and proving what seemed a great relief to Marianne, although she said nothing. She said nothing after the food came in and her mother tried to convince her to eat some of it, although after a quarter-hour of these endeavours she finally tried a custard tart and ate the whole of it, still silent as she did so.

* * *

Elizabeth retired for bed with her heart heavy, to have Mary's situation now added to her worries. At least it was likely to see an easier resolution, or so she hoped: David was a good man, and although he had put his wife and child in a dangerous situation, Elizabeth did think he would act now to ensure it would not happen again. He, at least, had the legal right to do so, even if it would not be easy with his own father.

A little voice inside her head, a little voice of continuing anger at herself, reminded her that _her_ husband had never put her in a dangerous situation – had indeed tried to stop her from putting herself in a dangerous situation when she had not been thinking clearly. It was with her mind roiling with such thoughts that she got into bed, feeling its awful emptiness, and it was still roiling after she had laid there for at least an hour, fatigued but knowing sleep would not come.

She rose and lit a candle and then the lamp, and carried both into Lady Anne's closet, taking up the journal she had been reading. It would be a comfort, she thought, to read of old problems long resolved, rather than dwelling on what a mess she had made of the present. She was well into 1793 now, a happier year than 1792, which had seen another stillbirth, the death of the Anne's grandmother the dowager duchess, and the execution of the King of France and the outbreak of war. The war had worried Lady Anne, over the thought that many mother's sons would be sent off to die. By 1793, though, her worries had returned to more domestic matters – namely that her son would be sent off to school in the autumn. She wrote of the event with trepidation through that summer's time in Derbyshire and the Lakes, and then finally:

" _August 12, 1793_

" _Said goodbye to my dear Fitzwilliam today. It was every bit as painful as I had thought it would be, and still more so with the Wickhams in the drive, also seeing their son off. Fitzwilliam bowed over my hand like a proper young man, and I wanted nothing more than to hold him and kiss his head, but I thought it would embarrass him in front of everyone._

" _I know it will be good for him to mix with other children of his age – and particularly of his station, children who will have the same responsibilities as him someday. I cannot like the Wickham boy, who begins to remind me too much of his mother, and I hope Fitzwilliam shall find other friends and have opportunity to spend more time with Edward. I am grateful he is there. Sometimes I fear Fitzwilliam has inherited all of my shyness, and having a cousin and dear friend there who already knows the ways of the school and the other children will be very helpful for Fitzwilliam, I think. Still, if he finds it too difficult, I will ask George to reconsider having him schooled at home, or sent to board with a scholar nearer to home, one with only a few other boys in residence._

" _George knew how sad I was to see him go, and we went for a long drive about the grounds in the curricle. Even he cannot soothe me today, tho."_

The months passed and Anne missed her son deeply, although George as always endeavoured to comfort her, a time punctuated only by the entry in October that began, _"O, the poor Queen of France!"_ The execution of the queen struck Anne far more particularly than that of the king, for she wrote that the queen could only follow the king and therefore had been a victim of events beyond her control. This did not align with the history as Elizabeth had understood it from Marguerite Fitzwilliam, but it did seem very in keeping with Anne's view of a wife's deference to her husband, and so Elizabeth read it with a strange feeling of fondness.

In the months leading up to Christmas, Anne wrote of feeling dissatisfied with her son's letters from school. They were vague, and she worried he was not happy.

"He could not be happy," murmured Elizabeth. " _Your_ son, thrown into such a place as Eton, with George Wickham as his supposed companion – how could he be? But then I suppose you knew that all along, and that is why you worry."

" _December 13, 1793_

" _O! My darling boy is home! I had not expected them until tomorrow but they made good time with all of the improvements to the turnpike, and arrived just before dinner. He looks well but is even quieter than usual, and I fear he has not been happy in his first months of school._

" _I went to his room to speak to him and try to see if he would tell me anything of whether he was unhappy, but any time I would broach the subject he would tell me about what he was learning in his classes or speak of Edward and some other boys I gathered were Edward's friends and had now befriended him. He seemed brighter when he spoke of these things, so perhaps he was just tired from the journey. But then when I left the room, the Wickham boy was in the hallway outside, and I could not shake the feeling that he had been listening. Could he have been? Could a boy of his age truly be as devious as I sometimes fear he is, or am I just being nonsensical and imagining his mother in him?_

" _December 14, 1793_

" _I was pleased when George said during breakfast that he wished to take Fitzwilliam out for a ride and hear more about his adventures at Eton, and Fitzwilliam seemed very pleased as well. By the time they had the horses brought around, tho, there were four horses, for it seems Mr. Wickham and his son had been added to the ride. I fear Fitzwilliam was very disappointed. George is of such an amiable nature that I can understand his not wishing to exclude anyone from an outing, but I wish he could see that his son would much rather it be the two of them. I do not know why George is so good at understanding my nature and yet cannot comprehend it in his own son._

" _Now I am sure they shall go out and everyone else shall speak more than my darling boy. I will have tea with him after he returns, just the two of us. Still, attention from a mother cannot be the same as that from a father, for a boy of his age."_

* * *

It took Mary a long time to fall asleep. Distraught by the events of the day and worried for Marianne, she had lain awake for some hours, still wondering how her life had been upended so quickly, whether their family could ever return to some manner of normalcy after this. Poor Marianne had not spoken a word since it had happened, and Mary had considered allowing her daughter to sleep in her room with her. But a visit to the nursery had seemed to cheer her spirits – albeit still wordless spirits – and after spending some time with little Emma petting the spaniels, it had seemed as though it would be a greater comfort for her to share a bed with her cousin. Thus Mary had been left alone.

She was awakened in the middle of the night by a knocking at her door, which proved to be a dishevelled-looking hall boy.

"Mr. Stanton's here to see ye, m'um."

"Mr. David Stanton?"

The young man looked perplexed. "Didn't think'a ask, m'um."

"If he is Mr. David Stanton, he is my husband and I would like to see him. If he is Mr. Richard Stanton, I believe he is not welcome within this house."

"I cain't throw 'm out, m'um. I don't have the 'thority."

"If it is Mr. Richard Stanton then I think it would be best to ask him to wait in the entrance-hall and go and wake your butler. Would you be allowed to do that?"

"Aye, m'um." The boy turned to leave but before he could do so, Mary bade him to wait so she could light a candle from his.

She closed the door and waited. Waited for much longer than she would have expected, if it was David, and she was growing concerned that somehow his father had thought to follow them here – surely he could not have expected admission, though! She peered out the window to see if she could see anything occurring outside, and in the light of the moon saw David's gig moving towards the stables, although she could not see who was driving it.

Finally, there came a knock at her door, and David's gentle murmur, "Mary, it is me – may I see you?"

She opened the door to find him standing there holding a chamberstick and looking almost as dishevelled as the hall boy. His countenance upon seeing her face turned to one of horror, recalling Mary to the bruise there. The worst of the throbbing had subsided, and so it had reached that point where it looked worse than it felt.

"Mary – oh, Mary – I am so sorry," he said. "I know asking for your forgiveness is not enough, though."

"Why don't you come in, and we can talk," she whispered, standing aside so he could enter her bedchamber.

"How is Marianne?"

"Her hands will heal – they brought her some ice and it helped a great deal," Mary said. "But she has not spoken since it happened."

He ran his hand through his hair. "That she should suffer so, in our own home, at the hands of her own family. That you should be harmed trying to protect her – how brave you were, Mary! – when it is you I made a vow to protect. I swear to you, if I had thought he would do anything like this, I would never have allowed him in the house, still less left you and our daughter alone with him."

"But is it not what he did to you, as children?"

"Not all of us, at least at Marianne's age. Jacob and I would be punished if we had truly done something wrong, but for whatever reason he took a set against Matthew from a very early age. My mother, as well – I never saw it happen, but sometimes she would look as you do right now, and – oh, _no_. Oh, my poor little girl."

"What is it?"

"He made a comment to me not long after he arrived in our home, that I might as well have named her Jezebel if I was going to name her Marianne."

"Do you think he took a set against her simply for her name?"

"I think it was not merely her name. He has always been a bitter man, but I did not consider how recent events could make him worse: defrocked – come down from his place in the world – losing his home along with his position. It does not excuse what he did, but it does explain it."

"Is he still at the parsonage?"

"I have no idea. I asked Johnson for a fresh horse as soon as I read your note and came here directly."

"You must be exhausted!"

"I deserve to be exhausted – I still have suffered the least of the three of us, today. I know we cannot entirely go back to the family we were before – this will always be a part of our history – but will you try with me, Mary? Will you please forgive me?"

She threw her arms around him. "I forgive you, and I love you. I want you to know that before I tell you the other thing I must tell you."

"Mary, what is it?"

"There is a chance I may be pregnant, and he hit me once in the belly. There hasn't been any bleeding, so I'm hopeful, but it may be some time until we know whether there even is a baby, and if so, if it was harmed."

"Oh Mary." He pulled her into another embrace. "You will never have to see him again. I promise you that. He will never harm our family again – I wish I had cut him when Matthew did. I could have spared us all of this."

"You did not know," replied Mary.


	40. Part 2, Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Mary and David were both early risers, and they remained thus the next morning even though he certainly could not have had more than a few hours of sleep. They dressed and went immediately to the nursery, to see Marianne. As is their way, the children were even earlier risers than most adults, and the nursery was already a tumbling mess of boys, with Bess Bingley looking rather tempted to join in their mix.

Marianne and Emma were still seated in the bed they had shared, one of the Darcys's spaniels curled up between them. They were petting the dog and whispering to each other, and Mary's heart lifted to see this. What they were whispering about could not be told, as they stopped when the adults drew nearer to them. Mary had led the way into the nursery, and her daughter seemed glad to see her, but then Marianne noticed David's taller presence behind her and shrank away. It pained Mary to see it, and when she glanced back to David, she could see it pained him still more.

Mary got down on her knees before the bed and opened her arms to Marianne, who entered into her mother's embrace readily, but still glanced up warily at her father. "Oh my baby girl, you're safe now – no one is going to hurt you. It's papa – papa loves you."

Marianne said nothing, merely nestling deeper into her mother's embrace.

David placed his fingertips on Mary's shoulder, and said, in a thickened voice: "Best not to distress her any further. I'll wait outside."

Mary held her daughter until she felt her grow restless, desiring a return to petting the spaniel and conversing with Emma. Even this near, Mary could not hear what they spoke of, but she was glad that Marianne was at least conversing with _someone_. Quietly, she left them and went out into the hall, where David awaited her. His eyes glassy, he swallowed hard before he said, "My child is afraid of me, and it is my own doing."

"It is not your doing – it is your father's. But I fear the familial resemblance is too much for her. Or perhaps all men are frightening to her right now. She will be better in time, I hope."

"I put her in a place where my father could do this, Mary. I did this, and I take responsibility for it."

Mary did not endeavour to correct him any further, recalling her own thoughts as she had made her plans to flee for Pemberley.

"I need to return today, but you and Marianne should stay here for some time. It seems to do her good, to be here with her cousins, and I am glad she has a place where – where she can feel safe."

"Must you – no, of course you must return," murmured Mary. Something needed to be done about his father, who might very well have been antagonising poor Cook and Horatio over the absence of the rest of the family – and even beyond that, David should have been looking after two parishes.

"If you wish me to stay, I will, Mary," he said, taking up her hand.

"I would be glad if you stayed at least a little longer – past noon, at least – before you go back."

"I will stay as long as you wish, Mary. All I care about most in this world is within this house."

* * *

Elizabeth had read Lady Anne's journals until she was so tired she was certain she could sleep soundly, and had been awakened from a rather sensual dream of her husband when Browning informed her Charles needed to nurse. She had been so happy, in the dream; she had not recalled their estrangement and merely delighted in his presence, and it had been a painful shock to wake and realise that was no longer her reality.

While Charles nursed, she distracted herself by recalling what she had read in those early hours of the morning: Anne's continuing concern regarding her son; a return to town, where they had gone to Ranelagh with the Fitzwilliams to reminisce of old times, but the rest of the season had wearied Anne; a happy return to Derbyshire so that George could attend quarter sessions. A little nagging voice in the back of Elizabeth's mind told her she was hiding away in the past so that she did not need to face the present, but she ignored it. There was too much pain in the present.

David Stanton's presence at the breakfast table was some comfort, for it told her at least Mary's situation had some hope of a quick resolution. His mien was grieved, however, and he spoke but little. Mary's face looked still worse in the morning light and recalled Elizabeth's mind to Abigail. She wondered how her friend was doing and wished that she could call on her, but knew she would be turned away. Then with a sudden start, Elizabeth realised she ought to call on Abigail anyway, for even though she would be turned away, it might seem suspicious to Laurence Sinclair if she did _not_ call.

Jane agreed to go with her – Mary could not go with her face as it was, and once David informed them he intended to stay through the morning, it was clear Mary would not have gone anyway. So Elizabeth and Jane rode over together, a groom following behind them.

"I never would have thought you would become such an equestrienne, Lizzy," said Jane. "You were always so set against it."

"It turns out all I needed was very patient instruction," Elizabeth said, her eyes filling with tears. She was grateful that a gust of wind gave her leave to blink them away, and sought to change the subject. "Bess and Emma seem as though they're doing very well."

"Oh, they are! Emma is just the dearest little creature, and I adore Bess in all her boldness. Sometimes I wonder how Charles and I managed to have such a child, but in truth I admire it. Perhaps that sounds strange."

"It does not. I think I could still adore my Jane if she was formed of boldness and audaciousness rather than gentleness and sweetness of manner."

Jane smiled, her countenance a most perfect example of that sweetness of manner. "I do think we shall have to make some changes in the nursery at Clareborne when we return, though. I had thought we were going to have quite a battle to get Bess to submit to a governess, but she seems very keen on Miss Fischer's lessons."

"I think they are all entering that age where reading seems this magical capability they are left out of, and it renders a governess's instruction desirable. How I bothered papa, when I was their age!"

Jane laughed. "Yes, I recall it too – you could not leave him alone. Even when you learned the essentials, you were always going into his study to ask him about this word or that word. He enjoyed it, though, I think."

"Yes, I think he did," replied Elizabeth, her mind drawn back into fond reminiscences of being drawn up into her father's lap so she could query him on unknown words.

"I wonder if mama and papa felt our childhoods went quickly," said Jane. "The thought that Bess is ready for a governess, and soon enough Emma will follow, it – it disturbs me. At least they are girls, and will stay at home for – oh Lizzy, I'm sorry, I should not have – "

"Do not worry yourself, Jane. I hold hopes that our next will be a girl."

"There won't – there won't be a next for us. That's why it seems Bess and Emma are growing up so quickly. I know there will not be another. After Emma's birth, Charles agreed we would not try for another. I don't mean to say we aren't intimate," continued Jane, turning quite pink, "For we are in certain ways, but not in any way that risks there'll be another baby."

They rode on in silence for some time, Elizabeth absorbing this intelligence, which was what she had suspected for some time.

"I am glad at least I have Bess and Emma," said Jane, finally. "Poor Kitty – Catherine. I cannot imagine what it must be like for her."

"Very painful, I know." Over the years, Catherine and Elizabeth had spoken on this subject several times. At first, Elizabeth had endeavoured to give her sister hope, but in their last few conversations it had been clear she could no longer encourage hope that was almost certainly going to be false.

"I am fortunate in other ways, too – I do not need to worry about an entail, as mama did. We intend to divide the estate. Bess will get the new house, as the eldest, and Emma the old house."

"I had thought you were getting rather well settled into the old house," said Elizabeth, "but now I suppose you may take as long as you like, in completing the new one."

"Yes," said Jane, smilingly. "I am glad I need not worry the work will be for naught, so I may finish the remaining rooms. I've decided what I want to do with the small parlour – I am going to make it into a print room. Mrs. Kinsley has one in her house, and I like it very much. The Bingley family haven't collected much in the way of paintings, so this is a way I may get some art into the house at comparably little cost."

Jane continued to speak of the print room for the rest of the ride, of the process Mrs. Kinsley had described, of selecting the prints and affixing them to the wall in a pleasing pattern.

As Jane spoke, Elizabeth considered her sister's complacency in discussing what must at some time have been a very painful topic. Elizabeth was glad Jane could be complacent – glad the Bingleys both seemed happy again in their marriage, even with this alteration.

"Unlike your own marriage," was Elizabeth's nagging thought as Alfred helped her dismount. She was then struck with the thought that perhaps they should not have ridden, for Alfred would remain out here to hold the horses. She had no intent to speak to Laurence Sinclair, and yet she felt now that even her presence here went against Darcy's wishes, and the least she could have done was come in a carriage so that a footman could have accompanied them into the house.

Her concerns were quickly mitigated, however. They were informed by the butler that Mrs. Sinclair was unwell and unable to see them, and turned back down the stairs to regain their mounts.

* * *

Although she felt exhausted when she retired for bed that evening – her lack of sleep over the past few nights clearly affecting her – Elizabeth still could not fall asleep. Again, she lit a candle and the lamp, and slipped into the closet to read.

" _April 7, 1794_

" _O, awful day! Part of me wishes I had not spoken but I could not remain silent any longer, particularly with what George had proposed. He wanted to bring the Wickham boy with us to the Lakes when the boys return from Eton. It distressed me so, that he would even contemplate such a thing._

" _I told him George Wickham was not our son – not a replacement for our George, and by giving the boy such attentions, he would only raise his expectations to a place he could not and should not meet. And more importantly, it meant his own son suffered from the lack of attention when George treated them as equals, for as the more shy of the two of them, it meant Fitzwilliam got the lesser share._

" _George said that was nonsense and there was nothing in what I said, that Fitzwilliam had never wanted for anything and it was likely we had spoilt the boy, as our only living child. Then he said he found it selfish of me, that I should begrudge his wish to raise George Wickham to a better life. And he said it was much better for Fitzwilliam to have a playmate and companion rather than being brought up alone, which might make him selfish in addition to being spoilt. It was clear he meant selfish like me. It was so painful to hear him speak of me like that and know that was his opinion of me, and had I been fighting over anyone or anything other than my darling boy I am sure I would have capitulated, but there is nothing I would not do for Fitzwilliam, and so I argued on his behalf even tho it distressed me so. I told George the Wickham boy was charming, but I did not entirely trust him and more importantly that it was plain to me that he and Fitzwilliam did not get on as they had used to do. I had nothing against bettering George Wickham's situation so long as he never did anything to prove my mistrust correct, but our son should always come first, for he was George's heir and would be master of the estate someday. I asked him why he could see how shy and insecure I was but not could not see it in his son, how he could not make it clear to that kindest, dearest little heart that he was undoubtedly first in his father's time and affections._

" _George would not answer me, and we have not spoken since. I took a tray in my room but could hardly eat anything, and then retreated here to my closet with a very bad head-ache."_

Elizabeth laid the journal down on her lap in surprise, staring out into the dark night. Anne had unfailingly deferred to her husband – had never even expressed an opinion differing from his – in all the years of their marriage, until this entry. "She did it to protect her son – her Fitzwilliam was the only reason she would ever have quarrelled with him," Elizabeth thought, and in that moment her sentiments towards both mother and son were tender, and exquisitely painful.

" _April 8, 1794_

" _George left for Quarter Sessions without so much as a word to me, and I fear this estrangement is going to last indefinitely, perhaps forever. Even with all the children I have lost, I do not think my spirits have ever been so low. At least in all of those times I had George, but the thought that he is lost to me is so very painful. How often have I retreated to this closet in order to be alone? Yet now the loneliness is an awful thing, and the weeks before Fitzwilliam comes home will be long and painful. Still worse, I believe I am with child again, although I suppose I shall just lose this one as I always do, and George may never know."_

"Like father, like son," whispered Elizabeth. "At least my Mr. Darcy left a note."

She wondered at the wisdom of reading of a past estrangement while in the midst of her own, but continued on, hoping at least to see a resolution for George and Anne.

" _April 9, 1794_

" _I had a letter today from Fitzwilliam and it cheered me so to hear from him. He excels in his subjects, particularly in Geography and History, and he seems much better settled as regards friends. There are new names he mentions engaging in various pastimes and sports with. I expect now that they have got to know him, they see him for what he is, a kind-hearted, good-humoured, intelligent, athletic boy. George Wickham may be more charming in the outset, but I am sure none of the boys at Eton will find a truer friend than my darling boy._

" _I wrote him a response immediately. I said nothing of the troubles between George and me, and merely responded to his letter and spoke of what goings-on in the estate and the villages I have heard of. I closed by telling him to never forget who he was, how worthy he was._

" _I miss him so much I am tempted at present to fly off to Eton and see him, but I do not think they would simply admit a distressed mother to see her son and if they did I expect it would be an embarrassment to him to be called out of his classes by his silly goose of a mother. Andrew and Ellen are still in town, tho, and perhaps I could go to them. Perhaps Andrew would even take us to Eton and let us take the boys out of school for a day. An Earl could request such a thing, I am sure. I will write to them and ask the staff to prepare for my going."_

How deeply Lady Anne had loved her son! Elizabeth feared he had never known it, never seen that behind her attempts at a proper facade, at appearing as a great lady and raising a boy of his class, was a depth of mother's love he had never understood. He could know it, if he would read these entries, and he _should_ read these entries, she concluded. It would be some time, though, until she could give them over to him – first he would need to be receptive to anything coming from the woman who had wounded him so.

" _April 10, 1794_

" _Byers has been tutting at me over how little I have been eating, and I am nearly ready to check her over it, but I find it hard to do so, for she is probably in the right of it. I can hardly manage more than a few mouthfuls at a time when I endeavour to eat – it feels as tho my stomach has been filled with dread ever since I quarrelled with George._

" _Today I read through Fitzwilliam's letters again and went down and played both the pianoforte and the harpsichord, which did soothe me a little. Sometimes I consider apologising to George, begging him to take me back, to forget what I have said. But I cannot. I cannot forget what he said and I cannot abandon my poor boy's interests. Soon at least I should have Andrew and Ellen's response and then I can set out, away from Pemberley."_

In Lady Anne's lack of appetite, Elizabeth recognised a kindred spirit, and wondered if the anxieties that prevented Anne from eating felt the same as they did for Elizabeth. Perhaps it was for the best that Charles was still nursing, even with the concern she felt for his development; at least it gave Elizabeth a greater purpose for eating.

" _April 11, 1794_

" _I had a letter from Ellen saying I would be welcome to come and visit whenever I wished. I am sure she must have been wondering why I would want to return to town so suddenly, and without George, but she said nothing of that._

" _Byers has had my trunk packed for some days, so I shall depart in an hour or so and we shall press on to get as far as we may to-day._

" _April 12, 1794_

" _We are to stay at the Bulls Head in Loughborough to-day, for it seems I fainted last night when I alighted the carriage. It was late and I was quite tired and had not eaten much all day – in truth all week – and I was already a little lightheaded for being with child again. So I awoke to Byers pleading that I stay here today to rest and endeavour to eat something of substance. The inn sent up a good quantity of gruel sweetened with honey, which I found easier to eat and so I tried to consume as much of the bowl as I could._

" _Byers has been trying to convince me that I should return to Pemberley, but I will not._

" _April 13, 1794_

" _Last night was so singular I hardly know what to say of it, except that George is here at the Bulls Head and we have reconciled, and O, how my heart is soothed. George had arrived at Pemberley to find me gone and had set out to attempt to catch me, which I doubt he would have done without my fainting and needing to stay and rest._

" _He asked why I had left Pemberley so precipitously and I said there was nothing for me there, which seemed to affect him deeply, and he asked if I could ever forgive him. When we had quarrelled he said he had been consumed by his temper and it had taken some days to cool – I know George has a strong temper but he is always so gentle with me I must admit I had not thought it behind his actions until he spoke of it. Knowing it was his temper and not his heart behind such things as he said to me soothed me so much, for now I understand he did not mean them._

" _While he was at the Quarter Sessions it seems he had ample time to think on what I had said and to understand the rightness of it, both that he should have been giving Fitzwilliam more attention, as our son and the heir to Pemberley, and that he should have recognized his son's shyness was so very like that of his mother. I was weeping by that time, of course, and said I was sorry that Fitzwilliam had taken after me, that it would have been much better for him to be more like George._

" _George said he had thought of that himself, but in all the thinking he had done, he had understood that no good would come from hoping our son was otherwise than what he was. He was his own self – and took after his beloved mother – and should be loved and respected as such. George said he did still wish to help his steward's son, but if I wished for a complete alteration there, he would honour it. I told him that was not necessary so long as he altered his attentions towards Fitzwilliam and ceased expecting them to be friends. I do wonder if I should have pressed for a greater change as regards the Wickham boy, but I felt that I should compromise since George had given me so much of what I had asked for, and truly the boy has done nothing wrong – it is just a sense I have that he is not to be trusted, and it does not seem fair to punish him for that. _

" _Someone must have told George that I had fainted, for he was very concerned over my health, but I told him I was feeling much better after I had rested and the two of us were at peace again. George asked whether I still wished to go to town and I told him of how I had been hoping Andrew could take us to Eton to see the children and George said there was nothing stopping him from withdrawing his son for a day or two himself, if I was missing Fitzwilliam so badly. For himself, George wished to go to town and find Fitzwilliam a pony well-trained in jumping. I was not particularly enamoured of this at first, until George helped me understand that it would mean his spending a lot of time with Fitzwilliam, just the two of them, as he instructed his son on how to jump. And he promised we would go to the Lakes again this summer, just the three of us."_

"Would that you had pushed him further on Wickham – how much pain and suffering you might have prevented!" whispered Elizabeth. "Would that my reconciliation with your son can come as yours did with his father."

Yet the situations were different, and Elizabeth knew it. She and Darcy were both of strong tempers, and typically their quarrels flared up with their tempers, but could be easily extinguished when those tempers cooled. This time was different, and that he had immediately put such a distance between them made clear he did not wish for a quick reconciliation. She was both of them, in a way – George Darcy who had lost his temper, and Lady Anne who had been made to wait at home. _She_ , at least, had broken free, had left Pemberley in an endeavour to find what happiness she could without her husband. But then again, Anne had been lonely, and at least Elizabeth had no cause for loneliness, not with her children and her sisters here in the house.


	41. Part 2, Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

It was just the three sisters at breakfast the next morning, David having left the previous afternoon. He had looked reluctant to go, to Elizabeth's eye, but she understood his need to resolve matters with his father. She was glad Mary and Marianne would stay with them for the foreseeable future, for at Pemberley they could be assured of both safety and companionship, particularly for poor Marianne. Emma had quickly become the child's particular friend, and the girl deserved such happiness, such friendship, after what she had been through.

They took the older children out for another ride in the paddock, and when they had exhausted themselves sufficiently to be led off by Miss Fischer, Elizabeth suggested the ladies take a drive around the grounds in the landau. Mary had never learned to ride – nor even wished to make the attempt – but Elizabeth thought it would do her some good to get out of doors. Mary agreed and proposed they take Emma and Marianne with them. The two girls sat beside Mary and chattered away as they drove the usual circuit, Elizabeth feeling very strange to be going about the grounds in this way rather than on foot or horseback. They passed the Temple of Diana, its interior now thoroughly cleaned and freshly painted, and Elizabeth wished she had thought to arrange a picnic for them there. Perhaps another day, she told herself: at least her sisters seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves. Mary, used to an industrious, dutiful life, had begun to seem anxious to be confined within Pemberley, sewing through the entirety of the poor basket in her leisure hours. Now, she appeared more content with the break in her duties, at least for this little respite of a fine drive on a fine day with her sisters.

The circuit completed, John brought the landau to a halt in front of the house, and Parker and the footmen came around to assist the three ladies and two girls down. Parker had a rather anxious expression upon his countenance, but he said nothing until they were in the entrance-hall, where he bowed and said,

"Ma'am, your sisters are here, in the saloon," to Elizabeth's great shock. She had not thought Catherine and Georgiana could have returned so quickly from America, and still less that they would have come to Pemberley. Yet as she could think of no reason why the presence of still more sisters should not be cause for happiness, she felt it welling up within her, and this was reinforced by Jane's squeal and rapid footsteps towards the saloon. Elizabeth and Mary followed her, entering that great space to find Jane squeezing Catherine tight, Captain Ramsey watching this with some amusement, and Georgiana standing there with her daughter and a very large black dog, looking abashed. Elizabeth's gaze shifted and she saw the reason for her sister's expression.

"Good God – Lydia!" A very large, very pregnant Lydia, who was sitting on the sofa and gazing about rapturously.

"Goodness, Lizzy, what a house you have," Lydia said. "I forgot how nice it was. And that dress! Lord, you're so fashionable now!"

Georgiana left both daughter and dog to embrace Elizabeth, murmuring, "I am sorry to bring this on you – we thought this the best place to take her to have the child. She asked for our help to bring her home – away from him. Is Fitzwilliam from home?"

"In town, attending to some business," Elizabeth choked out. "But you were right – this was the best place to bring her. I will write to my parents – my mama will certainly want to see her and be with her through the birth – but first I wish to understand the situation a little better."

The footman was dismissed, and Lydia's flight from America detailed. Elizabeth listened carefully, feeling aggrieved that Lydia had suffered so, and had done so without any protection. Yes, Lydia had chosen to go to America with Wickham, but Elizabeth thought now that she had been too young to make such a decision, that even now as she told her story she seemed young, foolish, innocent, a sharp contrast to Georgiana, even though Georgiana was less than a year her senior. It was strange to compare them, these two women, one of whom had been ruined by Wickham, and one who had escaped, found love, and travelled the world. At least Lydia was returned to them, Elizabeth thought. At least she was here where they could protect her, out of the physical and legal reach of Wickham.

* * *

Georgiana climbed the stairs to the nursery still feeling the lingering guilt of the chaos she had brought upon Pemberley. At least Fitzwilliam – most likely to be perturbed by it all – was off in town, although Georgiana regretted the shock he would receive whenever he returned. She had received a shock of her own, though, in the horrific state of Mary's face and the explanation that had been required; upon hearing it, her shock had diminished, shifting to grief and anger that Mary had suffered at Richard Stanton's hand. And poor little Marianne!

The child seemed to have recovered, though. It had been immediately clear to Georgiana when Marianne and Emma had entered the saloon that the children had formed a close friendship, and she had been concerned that Caroline – of their age but never having met them due to the nomadic life her parents led – would be left out. Caroline had arrived with an immense, friendly dog who loved to be petted by one little girl and thought the pats of three were cause for the utmost ecstasy, however, and thus it was with one large dog and three chattering new friends that Georgiana ascended the stairs.

No, if there were any people Georgiana felt she should be worried for, it was Lydia and Elizabeth. Lydia, of course, for what she was soon to endure; Elizabeth's health was less dramatically altered, and yet altered it seemed to be. Her countenance seemed worn and exhausted, her movements slow and weary instead of light and quick. Georgiana wondered what business could have drawn Fitzwilliam to town with his wife in such a state, and hoped it was nothing to cause lasting concern. Then again, she thought, of Elizabeth's sisters, only Jane's arrival had been planned in advance, and so perhaps Elizabeth's apparent weariness was the result of having to manage such appearances as all of her sisters had made upon her doorstep.

The children and Dog were ushered into the nursery, a pair of spaniels barking in alarm at the appearance of Dog. They came running up and the requisite sniffling and snuffling followed, as did all of the children who had been sitting at the table in the middle of the room with what appeared to be the Houltons's old governess. Georgiana was fairly certain she was either Miss Fairfax or Miss Fischer, but could not recall precisely, and was glad when Mrs. McClare approached with William in her arms and introduced the governess as the latter with nary a thought that Georgiana might already have some manner of acquaintance with the woman who had been governess to other young ladies in her former neighbourhood.

They were required to dismiss the footmen again after dinner, for while they had discussed how Lydia had come to accompany them to England, they had not spoken of what should come next; the only action any of them had taken was for Elizabeth to send an express to Longbourn, asking her father to bring his wife north. Thus it was in the drawing-room that they solidified the plan that had been started at sea: Lydia would have the baby at Pemberley and remain there for some months – possibly as long as a year – while Mrs. Bennet spread gossip about her neighbourhood, first that Lydia had remarried, and then that Lydia's husband had died, with his poor widow in the family way. There would be some deception, in adding the child to Lambton's parish register under a false name, but it could not be helped.

The notion of a new name was a great lark to Lydia, and she spent the remainder of the evening alternately murmuring and exclaiming: "Mrs. Ainsley." "Mrs. Garrick!" "Mrs. Crawford." "Ooh, ooh, Mrs. Wellesley!" "Or perhaps Mrs. Oakes." She had not settled on anything when they all retired for bed, and Georgiana thought it likely that the child's surname – and therefore Lydia's new "married" name – would be made final only when they took the child to be christened and a choice was imperative.

As they were going up, Elizabeth caught Georgiana's elbow and murmured, "May I show you something? It's in my chambers."

"Of course," replied Georgiana. She followed Elizabeth into chambers she had not entered since she was a girl, chambers that appeared very different to her now. As a girl, they had seemed large and grand; as an adult they struck her as crass and tawdry, and she felt guilty for thinking such things about her mother's rooms.

"I only found this recently," said Elizabeth, leading her over to the far wall of the bedchamber. "It was such a shock – I had no idea of what was hiding behind my own wall all this time."

Elizabeth pushed on one of the wall panels and it opened to reveal a closet. Georgiana gaped at its existence, marvelled at the simplicity of the space within compared to the gilt on the other side of the panel, and finally came to gaze at her sister-in-law, for it seemed there was more Elizabeth had to say.

"I – I think your reaction to your mother's rooms was similar to mine. But this space, her closet, this is who she truly was. Let me show you my favourite thing here."

Elizabeth took her sister's hand and led her over to a watercolour. "That is aunt Ellen's work!" exclaimed Georgiana.

"Yes – and I think you will recognise the subjects, even if you are too young to remember the day it was painted."

Georgiana did recognise them, could recall the brotherly way Fitzwilliam clasped her hand, even if she could not recall that particular day.

"At first I had intended to move it elsewhere in the house, but now I think I shall leave it as it is. I am loath to disturb this room when it was so important to your mother. It was her sanctuary, where she came to hide away when society got to be too much for her."

Georgiana could recognise the need Elizabeth spoke of, but she had spent so much of her recent life unable to indulge in it to the extent it appeared her mother had. This room, this closet most would consider little, was no bigger than the sleeping cabin Georgiana had shared with her husband while travelling to China and back. She had had her moments alone and she had been grateful for them, but she had not enjoyed such a luxury.

"I am sure aunt Ellen would produce a copy for you, if you asked," said Georgiana, fearing they had been silent for too long.

"I am sure she would, and I think I shall ask her," replied Elizabeth. "There were other things I wished for you to see here, though. Over here – your mother kept journals. I've read a great many of them: your brother thought it would be best for someone who did not know her to review them first, and there are some entries I wish for him to read. In the end, though, I think you should have them, as Lady Anne's daughter."

Georgiana reached out and brushed her fingers along the spines of the journals. Here, when she had least expected it, when she had not sought it, was what she had wished for since she had been old enough to wonder about her mother. She swallowed against the sudden lump that had come to her throat and asked, "What – what is your opinion of her, having read so much as you have?"

"I adore her," stated Elizabeth. "She is a different sort of woman from either of us, but in the end, I think she wanted the same things: love, family, a place to belong."

Georgiana smiled. "I want to read her journals – I would like to know her better – but I think they belong here. I shall read as much as I am able to while I am here, and if you do not mind I will take the remainder with me when we return to Hampshire, but ultimately I think they should be returned here, to her space."

"I cannot disagree with you. And I – I should warn you that there is a section within them where she tells of something awful done by another member of your family. If you would rather not read of it, I can tell you the portion to avoid."

"Even if it is awful, I think I would rather know."

"It will require something more of you than knowing," said Elizabeth. "Your – your brother and I decided it should remain a secret, and if you read of it, you will need to keep that secret as well."

"I understand," said Georgiana. She left Elizabeth's chambers with a little stack of journals, depositing them in her bedchamber before she went to the nursery to check on Caroline – quite happily ensconced within that space with Emma, Marianne, and Dog – and collect William to take him back to his cradle within her bedchamber. She nursed him and laid him down to sleep, then walked over to the stack of journals. Within was perhaps the answers to years' worth of curiosity, years' worth of wondering about the character of the woman she could hardly remember. Georgiana picked up the first journal and opened it.

* * *

It was difficult, to be in the Pemberley nursery. Catherine still spent her afternoon there, playing with her younger nieces and nephews as the older children had their lesson with the Darcys's governess. Here were all of her Bennet sisters's children, plus Georgiana's, and here therefore was the reminder that she alone would remain childless, for soon enough Lydia's baby would be added to their number. It was difficult, and still she did it, for these children were the only ones she would be allowed in her life.

She had not been there long, however, before her gaze fell upon George Nichols. As the child of the Darcys's nurse, he had not merited consideration before. Now, though, he was her sister's ward. The Darcys had responsibility for their own three sons, and there was every possibility more were to follow – certainly they could afford to look after George Nichols, but did they _need_ to do so? Was it better for the boy to grow up as a boy of lesser status than his companions, or as the sole responsibility of a couple who could care for him, love him, mould him as their own and ultimately leave him their estate? At first such thoughts merely glimmered in her mind, but they took on increasing strength as she watched the boys and Bess Bingley practising letters on their slates. She and Andrew wanted a child to love, and here was an orphan who had been raised in a genteel nursery.

She was eager to put the idea to Andrew but wanted ample time to discuss it. So she waited until they were lying in their sumptuous bed that night before she said, "I have been giving some thought to George Nichols."

"The Darcys's ward?" Andrew asked, and then, his countenance showing his comprehension, "Ah. You want for us to take him in."

"I think it would be best for the child – and for us, of course. He has a good home here, but we can offer him far greater expectations, and love him as parents."

"I had not considered it, but I think you are right, Cat," he said. "It may be complicated, though – you should be prepared for that. I assume Mr. Darcy is the child's legal guardian if the boy is their ward, and I know little of such matters. I do not know whether guardianship can be transferred to myself."

"Even if he remained the child's guardian, that does not mean we could not take the boy in. I would always trust Mr. Darcy to do the right thing, and I think he and Lizzy would see the merit in our taking him."

"True. Why do we not plan on discussing it with both of them, once he returns? Until then, we can get to know the boy better, gain his affections and trust. It is no small thing to commit to taking him in – we should ensure he is a child we want without a doubt, before we do so."

Catherine nodded. "I like that plan very well."

She kissed him good-night but could not sleep, her mind too full of the possibility of finally having a child to love. He was not her own, of course, but Catherine felt certain she could come to love him as though he was.


	42. Part 2, Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The next day, the party attempted to settle into some semblance of routine, for while that routine would be severely disrupted whenever Lydia finally gave birth, they had no firm notion of when such an event was to take place. She was large, but not, Elizabeth thought, so large as Georgiana had been when induced into birth, and so it was entirely possible she had mere days or another fortnight or even a month left.

Elizabeth had kept on with her own routine in reading Lady Anne's journals, now eager to complete them so that those still in her possession could be given over to Lady Anne's daughter, and also aware that she should be coming closer to the birth of said daughter. She had read through another stillbirth, Anne's recovery made faster by the new harmony within her family, by the trip to the Lakes of just Anne, George, and their son. Poor Anne had understood herself to be pregnant again and pessimistic that the conclusion should be as it had been for the past ten years. Her only consolation had been the solicitousness of her George, who seemed to be ever more devoted to his wife since that brief fractious point in their marriage. Yet Elizabeth had the advantage of knowing there _was_ a living daughter to come and by the dates, and she thought it likely this child would prove to be Georgiana. She had read with anticipation and hope, therefore, and hoped to reach the child's birth soon.

The children were all allowed their run within the paddock on their ponies, and Elizabeth found herself growing concerned that James seemed increasingly inclined to follow after his cousin Bess's capers on ponyback. Then, stubbornness rising within her, she determined she would not do anything about it: let James's father return and correct him, for this was supposed to be his domain. That stubbornness was only temporary, and she was glad of the distraction when Georgiana led Caroline up to the paddock fence – that great vast dog of theirs following the child like some sort of overgrown shadow – and began a conversation with Marshall about what pony might go best on a lead rein and with a side-saddle. Acorn, originally purchased as the spare but now nominally George Nichols's mount, was determined by Marshall to be the best choice. Jane certainly would have given leave for Georgiana's daughter to ride Ginger, who had the advantage of being used to a side-saddle, but it seemed this was the only advantage Marshall gave the creature, and thus Acorn had his tack changed out for a side-saddle, and Georgiana began leading her daughter about the paddock, the dog walking nervously beside the pony and looking as though she intended to catch the child, in chance she should fall.

"Your dog is so protective of her," said Elizabeth, when Georgiana had brought the pony back around to where she stood.

Georgiana pulled the pony to a halt. "There could not be a creature more protective, I think. She saved a man's life when we were sailing home. My nurse's husband, in fact – he fell from the mizzentop and she jumped in and swam after him."

Elizabeth gazed in astonishment at the dog. In her acquaintance thus far with the creature, its primary superiority over the spaniels had seemed to be in size and drooling, which it did with impunity.

Georgiana had continued talking, and it took Elizabeth some time to shift her focus back towards her sister, who was saying: " – not the only life saved – Lord Stretford bought fourteen, to free them – fourteen people – people! – bought them just as I bought Dog."

Elizabeth had not seen anything of slavery first-hand and she gazed at her sister, Georgiana's countenance a strange mixture of vehemence and grief. Georgiana _had_ seen it, and it had affected her profoundly.

"I wish more people could have seen what you have," Elizabeth said. "I think we would be much nearer complete abolition, if they could."

"I fear I do not share your optimism. Lord Stretford says so long as there are enough men who will only act in their own self-interest – who will think only of their own profits, regardless of the moral cost, the human cost – it will continue. After all, there are plenty of people who _do_ see it daily, and profit from it. I cannot imagine having one's heart so hardened as to be unable to see such inhumanity."

"Mama, make'a pony go," whined Caroline, tired of a conversation she could not comprehend. Georgiana bowed her head and led the pony off, the dog following faithfully after.

Elizabeth watched them go and contemplated what Georgiana had said, her heart even heavier than before. Her spirits were lifted a little by Jane's solicitude, for as she was making her return through the house she found her sister out walking the lawn, with the apparent intent of finding a moment alone to ask her sister:

"Lizzy, are you well? I hate to say so, but you have looked increasingly unwell these past few days. The unexpected arrival of all of our sisters _is_ much to handle, particularly with Fitzwilliam from home."

Dear, dear Jane! For a moment, Elizabeth contemplated telling her all, but realised she was not yet ready to speak of it, to admit aloud what she had done – not even to Jane.

"I am well enough, just a little tired," Elizabeth said, embracing her sister. "And you are a dear for asking."

"Is there anything I may do to help?"

"I had been planning to arrange a picnic this afternoon, in the Temple of Diana. Would you be willing to arrange it with Mrs. Reynolds?"

"Oh Lizzy, I'd love to – how delightful for all of us! But _you_ must promise to go lay down and rest, until it is time."

Elizabeth gave her promise and trudged up the stairs to her bedchamber. She did not think she would be able to sleep on such a bright morning, but she could lie on Lady Anne's chaise and continue reading.

" _July 25, 1795_

" _I felt the baby quicken today. I can no longer dare to hope and so I know this means I will likely carry this child to birth and suffer another tragedy then. Fitzwilliam I think sensed my upset, for he asked me what was wrong, and I had to tell him nothing. O, my darling boy, how were you the only one to survive? How is it that I am at least blessed with you?_

" _Of course George knew why I was upset, and has been so comforting."_

"Oh, but she lives," whispered Elizabeth. "She lives, and what a life she has had so far. You would be amazed, if you could have lived to see it."

Lady Anne's entries were fewer leading up to the birth, and marked with a certain pessimistic despondency. There were none at all for the month of November, but then, finally:

" _December 3, 1795_

" _My little miracle girl is one month old today. She is still so small and fragile, but she fights, my dear little one, O how she fights!_

" _We had her blessed the night she was born for we were not sure she would survive the night. George and I have not even spoken of names – I have something in mind but it will be months, I think, before I will even dare speak it aloud, still less write it here._

" _She and I have been moved to a little bed beside the fire and whenever I am awake we keep her on my chest, for Dr. Barrett thinks maternal warmth is most beneficial for her. Byers watches over us during the night and George and Fitzwilliam sit with me during the day – we had Fitzwilliam brought back from Eton so he could know his sister, at least for a little while. He has been so helpful to me – in the afternoons he comes and reads to us and we talk about his studies. Sometimes I have him read in Latin even tho I cannot understand it, for it makes me proud to hear how accomplished he is._

" _The baby is stirring, so I must go, but I wanted to write a little something to remember these days, if they do not last, to remember the time we were a family of four. O, how I pray we shall remain one."_

Elizabeth wept, upon reading this, wept to read of Anne's "miracle girl" and those fraught days of wondering whether the nameless baby would live. Painfully, she recalled her own days of maternal fear with Charles, her exhaustion, how concerned Darcy had been for both her and the baby, how united they had been as a couple. She wept, and it took her a long time to return to her reading.

" _February 17, 1796_

" _We had a letter from Andrew today to tell us mama had died. I wish I could have seen her once more and I wish particularly that she could have met her little granddaughter. I am glad tho that she had so many years of happiness after papa's death, that she had Ellen's companionship and got to watch her grandchildren grow up._

" _My little miracle girl is still with us, and her health improves slowly."_

The paper was mottled from what must have been Anne's tears, making it plain that her words had been an endeavour to cheer herself. Her entries after this, though, grew ever more hopeful, happier, as it became clear that the baby was going to live, and then as that baby was finally christened Georgiana Darcy, for George and Anne.

" _July 7, 1796_

" _It is so good to have Fitzwilliam home from school again. Georgiana could not have a better older brother, I am certain, for he positively dotes on the little girl. For a boy who has never known another living sibling, he would be within his rights to show at least a little jealousy, but he does not, the dear boy. It must help that she is a girl and that the difference in their ages is so great, but still, I think the greater reason is that he is such a good-hearted boy. I do not think I can call him a boy any longer, tho, for how he has grown, even since Christmas!_

" _Anyway, I hope George sees it – I know he thought jealousy towards the Wickham boy was in part why they have not got on so well in the past few years, but by his behaviour towards his little sister, Fitzwilliam shows plainly that there is not a jealous bone in his body, as regards his own family._

" _Fitzwilliam has ample competition in doting on Georgiana, tho, for George likes to spoil her at every opportunity, and I adore watching him do so. By conventional wisdom I am sure we should have had another boy, to have a spare heir for the estate, but I am so very glad we had a girl. She will not have to go away to school and so can keep us both company as we grow older. Someday, of course, she may fall in love and marry, but I am resolved she should only marry for love, just like Fitzwilliam. Her fortune will be such that she will not need to marry and I am sure Fitzwilliam will always give her a home at Pemberley if she wishes it."_

Elizabeth had always understood that there had been a defect in the education of Fitzwilliam Darcy, and now she fully acknowledged its roots: with every good intention, it had been his mother who had spoiled him and taught him to think meanly of those beyond his family circle. And yet now Elizabeth understood something else, that if Lady Anne had _not_ done this, had not intervened to ensure George Darcy gave clear precedence to his own son, Fitzwilliam Darcy might very well have grown up to be another sort of man entirely, and likely not a better one.

Georgiana continued to grow, although her development was slow and she was slow to wean. Reading of this was some comfort to Elizabeth, for it affirmed in a more tangible way what the physicians had told her about the development of a child that had been sickly at birth – and gave her the reassurance of knowing Georgiana to be a young lady in the best of health at present. Lady Anne wrote with great relief of the new vaccination for smallpox, of how safe it was said to be, and arranged as quickly as she could for the elder members of her family as well as all of Pemberley's servants to receive it; Georgiana would need to wait until she was older, but the vaccination of the rest of the house would afford her some protection. _"I am so grieved this came too late for poor little Ellen,"_ wrote Lady Anne.

Elizabeth was about to read on, but was prevented doing so by the sound of distant knocking – her bedchamber door, most likely.

"Ma'am, it's me," said Sarah. "They sent me to wake you – it's near time for the picnic."

Elizabeth could hear the bedchamber door opening and Sarah's footsteps inside, which halted when she must have realised Mrs. Darcy was not lying in the bed there. Realising she would need to reveal the existence of Lady Anne's secret room to Sarah, Elizabeth pulled open the door.

"I am in here, Sarah."

Sarah cocked her head slightly and said blandly, "Oh, I never knew there was a closet there."

Elizabeth smiled slightly as she realised that of course matter-of-fact Sarah would not treat this as a great revelation, and said, "Nor did I until a few months ago."

"Is that why you haven't gone ahead with having the wallpaper installed?"

"In part, yes – and I have been distracted with other things. I am inclined to keep the panels so that it remains concealed, even if it means the walls remain out of date."

"A new colour would help, I'm sure – something to match the new fabric," said Sarah. "But I don't mean to delay you. They asked me to wake you as it's time for the picnic, and it looks as though I ought to change you – your dress is rather wrinkled."

"Perhaps the yellow muslin," said Elizabeth. She wanted something cheery, a reminder that even if things were not well between her and Darcy, at least she was here with all of her sisters, all of them together for the first time in many years. She should find cheer where she could, and enjoy this picnic.

Sarah helped her out of the printed cotton dress she had been wearing, and then slipped the yellow muslin over her head. She buttoned it, but then pinched at the fabric beneath Elizabeth's arms.

"I'll be needin' to take this in, I think. It'll do for today, but it's not fitting as it should." Sarah's tone was not quite so bland, now; there was a hint of warning in it, and Elizabeth heeded it. She had known her appetite was poor, but not that it had affected her so significantly – she owed it to little Charles, at least, to eat as much as she possibly could.

Elizabeth was not without options, in the grand picnic Jane and Mrs. Reynolds had arranged. On a sideboard within the Temple of Diana was a vast array of cold meats, cheeses, sallads, cakes and tarts. Elizabeth took a little cold meat and much larger servings of the sallads, and determined she would try to return for another plateful once she had finished this one.

The space was lovely, with peach-coloured walls, light plasterwork, and Coade stone statues set within recesses on the wall, Diana taking precedence in the centre with her bow and arrow. Jane had included all of the children save Charles and William, and they sat around a low table, giggling and jamming handfuls of cake into their little mouths. There was a fair amount of giggling at the adults' table, as well, poor Captain Ramsey at least looking amused as six sisters spoke more of all that had happened in their lives since they had seen each other last. Elizabeth felt badly that Lydia did not seem to have much in the line of happy stories to share with them, but Lydia did at least seem content now, and _her_ appetite seemed larger than it had ever been, although quite appropriate given she was eating for nearly two.

"Lord, Lizzy, I don't know how you're not quite fat by now," said Lydia, embarking on her third plateful. "If I was you I'd eat five of these tarts every day and have my servants pull me around in a Bath chair."

Elizabeth laughed with the rest of them and found herself glad that Lydia still had enough of her old spirit to show a little of her old inappropriateness, that she had not been forced to grow up entirely. They sat and spoke and ate and enjoyed the breeze wafting through the open doors, they watched the children scampering about when they grew bored with their food, as the dogs made quick work of anything they had left on their plates. They stayed for hours, and Elizabeth realised she was content. Not so content as she had been at other times in her life – she was still aware of her worries – but content nonetheless, as though her sisters had each given her a little measure of their own happiness, and it was enough to bolster her spirits for now.

Eventually, they all agreed it was time to regain the carriages and return to the house, and Elizabeth climbed into the landau with Jane, Mary, and Lydia, who leaned back against the cushions, laid her hands on her belly, and groaned. "I shouldn't have eaten so much, but it was so _good_."

"I'll tell Mrs. Reynolds to let Cook know how much you enjoyed it."

"Tell her to put all of the leftover tarts in my bedchamber, too."

They all chuckled and rode on in silence for some time, until Lydia's countenance began to take on an odd cast.

"Lydia, are you well?"

Lydia grimaced. "My belly feels weird. Maybe it's just because I ate too much but it feels _really_ weird."

Her sisters all sat up straighter, but it was Mary who asked, "How weird?"

"Like there's these pains moving around. But they come and go."

"It's likely time for your lying-in," said Elizabeth. "Let's get you back to the house and get everything set up."

"Can you send for Dr. Adderley?" asked Lydia.

"His name is Dr. Alderman," corrected Elizabeth. "But Jane and I thought it would be better to have Dr. Hayes from Derby attend you."

Lydia grimaced. "But Dr. Alderman is in Matlock, isn't he? It'll take a lot longer to get a physician from Derby."

"Dr. Hayes is farther away," said Jane softly, "but I like his manners much better."

"Oh. Did he attend you for Emma's birth?"

Jane dropped her gaze. "No, Dr. Alderman did. He – he used forceps on me – I – I wasn't ready – Charles and I have used Dr. Hayes, since."

"Does Dr. Hayes have a lot of experience with childbirth?" asked Lydia, her countenance a mixture of confusion and worry.

"I – I do not know."

"Well then I think I'd rather have Dr. Alderman. He's closer and he knows how to use forceps. After all, you and Emma are both well."

Jane had not been _well_ , after Emma's birth, but by the simplest measurement, the one Lydia used – life – that event had been a success. That had not been the case for Mrs. Nichols, Elizabeth thought, but she did not raise such thoughts. Lydia had made her preference clear, and the death of a woman from an unrelated surgery – in which the physician had been a mere assistant – did not seem as though it would sway her. It would create doubts, though, and doubt was a dangerous emotion to feel, before childbirth.

Lydia's choice plainly troubled Jane, though, and when they stopped in front of the house, Elizabeth asked Mary to take Lydia up so that she could speak to Jane for a moment.

"Jane," Elizabeth said, taking her sister's hand, "I am sorry you will have to see him again – to suffer even more of a reminder. Do not do anything that discomfits you. All of Lydia's sisters are here – there will be plenty of us to be in the room with her, and I am sure my maid and Georgiana's maid will help as well."

"I do not want Lydia to think I do not support her, though," said Jane. "I think I will be fine so long as I leave after her water comes."

Elizabeth nodded. "Please leave as soon as you feel the slightest bit distressed."

Jane's eyes filled with tears. "Thank you, Lizzy. I feel so bad for Lydia, to be having a child with her future so uncertain."

"'Tis far more certain for her than it was a few months ago. She's here with her family, now – we will take care of her and her child."

They went in, and Elizabeth arranged with Parker that a messenger should be sent to Matlock for Dr. Alderman, then followed her sister up the stairs.

* * *

After Georgiana had been told by a breathless Catherine that Lydia had begun her lying-in, she found herself feeling strangely – albeit appropriately, for she was not Lydia's blood relation – left out of the proceedings. All the other ladies of the house were in Lydia's room, and Georgiana had offered up Moll's assistance as well. She decided to go to the nursery, but found William still asleep and Caroline playing happily with the other little girls and the dogs, so she retrieved the first of her mother's journals and went to the sitting-room down the hall from Lydia's room. It was one of her favourite rooms in the house – Fitzwilliam had fitted it up especially for her and it was marked with a more feminine form of his excellent taste. She read curiously but with less trepidation than she might have otherwise, for Elizabeth's endorsement that she adored Lady Anne had done much to bolster Georgiana's confidence that she would like the woman within these pages. Or the young girl, for Lady Anne had begun keeping her journals at the age of twelve. The early entries were not the simple, happy, childish writings that might be expected at such an age, but in her mother's shyness, her discomfiture in company and sense that she did not feel secure in her place in the world, Georgiana recognised much of herself. At least Georgiana had felt security in her home, in the protection of a steady father and then a steady brother. How it had worn on her poor mother, to suffer the anxieties of the late earl's gambling debts.

The door opened and Captain Ramsey entered, a stack of books in his hand. "Your brother has quite the collection on naval history, but then I believe he has quite the collection on _everything_."

Georgiana chuckled, but was prevented saying anything by the shrieking of Lydia from down the hallway. The shrieking continued, making clear that the child was most likely coming at that moment, and Georgiana felt a certain jealousy towards Lydia, to have it all over in a matter of hours. The shrieking stopped, and some minutes later Moll stuck her head in the doorway,

"'Tis a girl, little but healthy."

Georgiana nodded. "Thank you, Taylor." She returned to the pages before her, to what proved to be the death of her mother's paternal grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Brandon. They were ringing the bells of the parish church and young Lady Anne was struck with the notion that bells announced death, but also life, and upon reading this Georgiana laid the journal down upon her lap, then set it aside entirely and went into the hallway. Mrs. Reynolds was seated there, along with Lydia's maid Fanny, who was looking pale. Georgiana recalled wryly how Dr. Whittling had said not every maid was so stout of constitution as the Kelly sisters, although she felt sympathy for the poor maid, who could not control such a thing.

The housekeeper rose upon seeing Georgiana, and gave her the broad smile that had always been her mode of greeting the only daughter of Pemberley Mrs. Reynolds had ever known. She curtsied and said, "Lady Stanton, did your maid inform you the child was a girl?"

"Yes, Mrs. Reynolds, she did, and I was wondering if you had sent someone to have the bells rang at St. Margaret's."

"Not yet, my lady. We've a rider ready, but I wanted to give it some minutes to ensure he's not needed for something else – the apothecary or the like."

"I – think perhaps you might wish to speak with Mrs. Darcy before you send the rider out. Her sister is not of the parish and since it is not broadly known she is here, it might prove confusing to those in the parish – Mrs. Darcy might prefer the bells to be rang within the chapel here, instead."

Mrs. Reynolds was always deferential when she needed to be, but she was shrewd as well. She gave Georgiana a knowing look and said, "Aye, my lady. I'll wait until I speak to Mrs. Darcy about the bells before I send him."

* * *

This was the first time Catherine had watched a birth. She had been present in the house, for other births, but never actually in the room for the event. She and Lydia had once been closer than all her other sisters, however, and moreover Lydia was the only one to go through this without a husband there to hold her hand. So it had been Catherine who had done so, who had encouraged Lydia in those most painful minutes, while Mary wiped her brow with lavender water. In that time, in fully comprehending the degree of pain it took to bring a child into the world, Catherine's envy had ebbed entirely, only to come back stronger than she had ever known it when the little girl was handed over to Lydia and Lydia had whispered, "oh look at her, what a pretty little thing," and kissed the top of her daughter's head.

It took her some time to recover her equanimity at the sight of this, but once she had, she found it strange that everyone remained in Lydia's bedchamber rather than giving her some privacy with her new daughter. She stepped back towards Mary and whispered, "Shouldn't we leave them alone?"

"Not yet," Mary whispered back. "We have to wait for the afterbirth to pass."

They did try to give her as much privacy as they could, sitting in the little array of chairs that had been claimed from other rooms and placed in Lydia's bedchamber, while Kelly and Taylor went about cleaning the room and Dr. Alderman took snuff and then a cup of tea. They waited for a long time, and Catherine noticed everyone else beginning to fidget.

"What's wrong?" Catherine whispered to Mary.

"It's been more than half an hour – it should have passed by now."

It was strange to hear Mary speak so authoritatively, but then Catherine realised she must have attended more births than the rest of her sisters, as a clergyman's wife.

"That's what happened with Lizzy the first time – do you think she's having twins?"

"I hope so," whispered Mary.

They waited another half-hour, the maids endeavouring to clean the room and the housekeeper coming in to speak with Lizzy. Shortly after this, they could hear a bell ringing within the house, and Lydia looked about her with delight.

"Is that for her?"

Several of them replied it was, and Lydia kissed her daughter's head and said, "Listen to that, little one. They are ringing the bells for you! Do you hear them? The bells are saying, _the most beautiful little girl in the world has just been born_."

Another five minutes passed, and then Dr. Alderman said, "It's been more than an hour, now. I'll need to manually remove the afterbirth."

"Sir, I think we should wait. T'was much more than an hour before Mrs. Darcy had her second baby," Kelly said, her sister seeming to be very much in agreement.

"Are you drunk, woman?" asked Dr. Alderman. To this Kelly's reaction could only be shocked surprise, and Dr. Alderman continued, "It would be just like your type to be drunk, and I can't think of why else you would contradict a trained physician. I may not be an accoucheur, but I am a graduate of the Royal College of Physicians. I have studied childbirth."

"Dr. Alderman, you _will not_ speak to one of my servants again in that manner," said Elizabeth. Lizzy had not looked particularly well since they had arrived at Pemberley, but suddenly she was all rage and fire.

"My apologies, Mrs. Darcy, but your servant needs to learn her place."

"Kelly's place is here because I have asked her to be here, and if anyone is asked to leave, it will not be her."

Such an argument could not but distress Lydia, and Catherine noticed this first, going over to where Lydia laid with her child on her chest, and touching her shoulder.

"What's wrong?" asked Lydia tremulously. "Why is everyone arguing?"

This recalled everyone to focusing on Lydia, although Lizzy and Dr. Alderman were still looking daggers at each other. It was left to Mary to explain the situation calmly, "Lydia, your afterbirth has not passed, and it should have by now. Dr. Alderman wishes to remove it, but Lizzy, Kelly, and Taylor – and myself – think it better to wait."

"But you're not physicians," said Lydia. "If the doctor says it should be removed, I want it removed."

Dr. Alderman looked to Kelly and Taylor. "Drape her with the sheet again, for modesty. And if you will not do it, find me someone else who will."

The sisters whispered among themselves but then did as he asked, looking troubled.

"Lydia, are you certain you want to do this?" asked Elizabeth.

"I am, Lizzy."

Mary picked up the baby as Dr. Alderman positioned his hand between Lydia's legs and said, "This is likely going to hurt a great deal, Mrs. Wickham. Try to relax, but you must be prepared for that."

Lydia grunted as he began whatever he was about – the sheet prevented Catherine's seeing it – then Dr. Alderman stated in too arrogant a tone that there was no twin inside and Lydia's face spasmed in pain and she began screaming. Catherine grabbed her sister's hand again and held it as she screamed – far louder and in far more apparent pain than when she had borne the baby. It was the most awful sound Catherine had ever heard.

Catherine glanced about the room to see the reactions of the other women and was surprised to see both Elizabeth and Kelly, who she had always thought of as having strong constitutions, looking very pale. No, Elizabeth looked even beyond that – there appeared a very strong possibility that she was going to faint. Taylor observed this as well, thankfully, for she grasped an arm each between the two of them and said, "Both of ye, out – now," and led them to the door.

Still Lydia screamed. Tears were streaming down her face and her screams continued even as Dr. Alderman's hand withdrew holding a mass of bloody humours. Taylor held out a basin and he deposited it in the bowl, then said, "I'll need another, to wash my hands."

"Get it yerself," said Taylor, and she strode out of the room, basin and all.

* * *

Georgiana had heard Lydia's second round of screaming, and by the awful, inhuman sound of it that something had gone very wrong – she presumed with the afterbirth, since the baby was already out. She went out into the hallway and there found Moll escorting Sarah Kelly and Elizabeth out into the hallway, saying to Mrs. Reynolds, "Sarah just needs a minute to sit, but Mrs. Darcy needs to lie down a'fore she falls down."

"I'll take Mrs. Darcy," said Georgiana. She clasped Elizabeth's arm in the same manner as Moll and led her across the hallway, to what had been Georgiana's old bedchamber. As she did so, she overheard Sarah Kelly saying to the housekeeper, "It was too like Mrs. Nichols, ma'am – it was awful."

A few minutes of lying on the chaise seemed to do much to improve Elizabeth's colour. The screaming had stopped and Elizabeth made to rise, saying, "I need to go see how she is."

Georgiana laid her hand on Elizabeth's shoulder. "I'll go. You should rest."

Mrs. Reynolds and Sarah Kelly were still sitting beside each other in the hallway. Inside Lydia's room, the new mother was lying in the great bed and holding her child; her colour, in truth, looked much better than Lizzy's. Catherine and Mary were her sole attendants, and Georgiana wondered where everyone else had gone to.

"I told Elizabeth I would see how you're doing, Lydia."

"I'm much better, now," said Lydia. "It still hurts a lot but at least it's out now."

"I am glad to hear that," said Georgiana, stepping closer. "What a sweet little girl."

"Isn't she? I think she's just the prettiest little baby. I'm glad she was a girl – it's not like I have property to be entailed or anything like that, and she'll be better company for me."

Georgiana nodded, and said she should get back to Elizabeth. Before she could go back into that bedchamber, however, she saw Moll leaving what had been her old dressing-room, looking grave and concerned.

"Milady, can I speak to ye for a minute?"

"Of course." Georgiana followed Moll into the dressing-room and waited as Moll closed the door behind her and then said,

"That doctor didn't get all o' the afterbirth. I checked it meself."

"My God."

"We're all gonna have to be prayin' to Him, 'cause He's Mrs. Wickham's best hope now."

"She's so young – she's younger than I am."

"There was moments I thought we was gonna lose you, too, milady, when you bore Caroline. But you fought through an' I hope so will she," said Moll.

"You were always so confident, when I bore Caroline."

"Well it wouldn't of been helpin' ye, if I'd a'been puttin' doubts in yer head. Those two surgeons was doin' enough of that."

"True. Thank God you were there."

Moll smiled faintly, but it faded rapidly. "Milady, reckon you haven't turned your mind to this yet, but if she does take a fever you'll need to: that baby's gonna need to nurse."

"Oh – yes, my mind had not gone there yet."

"There's you and Mrs. Darcy as still have children on the breast, but Sarah's been worried Mrs. Darcy can't even keep up with nursing her own son. At his size he ought'a be weaned, but I guess he's been sickly and he still won't take anything other than mother's milk."

"It must be me, then, at least until a wet nurse can be found. Elizabeth will try – I know her – but I'll insist, if it comes to that. Let us pray it does not."

"Yes, milady, that's all we can do is pray."

Georgiana frowned, for a thought had come into her head and it concerned her. "Moll, have you known a baby to catch fever from its mother? I want to help Mrs. Wickham's baby, but I must think of William's health."

"An' your own, milady. I've not seen it, but that don't mean it's not possible. You could use a pap boat, like ye do for William sometimes. She'd be too young to take it direct from the spout, but a bit of flannel dipped in the milk'd do the job. We did that for Mrs. Keegan's little boy, after she died – sheep's milk, though, as there was no-one nursin' nearby."

"Did the baby live?"

"Nay, ma'am. Well, he lived while he was on the sheep's milk, but he still died before he made a year. Happens a lot, where I'm from."

"I'm sorry to hear that," murmured Georgiana.

"Nothin' what we can do for those that's already gone, milady. That's how I always see it. D'ye want me to tell Sarah, about the afterbirth? I'm sure she's feelin' better by now."

"Yes, please do, and I shall tell Elizabeth. Mrs. Reynolds should know, as well. No-one else for now – we'll let Elizabeth decide how the rest of her sisters should be told."

"Aye, milady," said Moll, and then hesitantly, "There's something else you should say, when you tell Mrs. Darcy: the fever don't set in right away. It'll be a day or two, sometimes three, before it happens."

Moll left the room through the door to the hallway, Georgiana through the door to her old bedchamber. Elizabeth was still lying on the chaise, her colour looking far better.

"How is she?"

"Elizabeth, I need to tell you something."

* * *

Weariness, fear, despondency. It was strange to recall that just that afternoon Elizabeth had felt content. She trudged down the hall to Jane's bedchamber, knocked, and received no answer. Opening the door, she found Jane was not inside, and then realised this room was much too close to Lydia's chambers – Jane would have heard too much to maintain any sort of equanimity if she had remained here. Elizabeth then turned her mind to where Jane might have gone, and thought the library or the chapel on the other side of the house the most likely locations.

Jane was in the chapel, sitting in a tranquil attitude. She had not heard anything here, then.

"It's a girl," said Elizabeth. She spoke softly, but Jane still started, turning to face her sister.

"I was here when the footman rang the bell, but I am glad to hear it was a girl – I think a girl much better suited for Lydia." Jane smiled. "How is she?"

"She – " Jane did not need the details, Elizabeth determined, details which would rouse every painful memory for her sister " – not all of the afterbirth passed. She still feels well, but we will need to wait to see whether she takes a fever. Mary and Catherine know – and Georgiana – but we have not mentioned it to Lydia yet. Worrying will not help her health."

Elizabeth had not been surprised, when Georgiana had told her – the violent manner in which the afterbirth had been torn from Lydia's body had been fraught with the possibility – but she had still been hopeful, up until that point. Even now, she tried to remain hopeful – Lydia was young, with a stout constitution – although her hopes had to be forcibly roused, reminded to come forth.

"What can we do for her?" asked Jane.

"Pray for her and look after her. She will need someone in the room to watch her at all times, to see if – " Elizabeth could not finish, choking on a sob as Jane rose and rushed over to embrace her. They separated, both of them weeping, and Jane said,

"I will watch her overnight. I could not be there for the birth, but I can do that."

"I was going to – "

"Lizzy, absolutely not. You are not well."

"I am just tired, Jane."

"Then you rest until you do not feel tired, however long that takes. Lydia has three other sisters to look after her and I believe I can speak for all of us when I say we would much rather not worry over the health of two sisters rather than one."

Jane spoke more sharply than Elizabeth could ever recall, and she bowed her head, chastened. Welling up inside her, a little voice of doubt asked whether it was more than just her inability to sleep, whether she was not truly ill, whether she had not caught Mrs. Nichols's cancer through her son. She tamped it down, unwilling to consider such a fate for herself or for little Charles at this time.

Prodded by more of Jane's vehement encouragement, she went upstairs to change for bed. Sarah's face was solemn as she worked, and she appeared on the verge of saying something for several minutes before she finally said,

"Ma'am, I'm sorry I lost my head during Mrs. Wickham's lying-in. It just – it just reminded me too much of poor Mrs. Nichols."

"I suffered the same reminder – I recalled it all so vividly," said Elizabeth. "I feared for a moment you were going to apologise for speaking up to Dr. Alderman, when it is I who should be apologising to you. A man I invited into my house should never had said thus to you. You were where I asked you to be, doing what I asked you to do, and I am sorry you had to suffer that."

"My sufferings were nothing compared to Mrs. Wickham's. I'm prayin' for her, ma'am."

"Thank you, Sarah."

Elizabeth went into her dressing-room and nursed Charles – how hungry he seemed to be, these days! – and reluctantly told Browning to try again with solid food in the morning, if Elizabeth was still asleep: she was not to be awakened unless there was a change in her sister's condition. She closed her bedroom door behind her and walked over to the fireplace. It was every bit as ornate as the rest of the room, and above it was a vast old gilt pier glass. Elizabeth gazed at her reflection. Even in the candlelight she could see what had concerned her sister – the deep, dark circles under her eyes, the dullness of her skin, the fatigue in her posture. She slipped her hand beneath her nightgown, afraid of what she would find but now unable to stop until she knew whether there was a lump somewhere on her breasts. There was none that could be felt, but Elizabeth knew nothing of how cancer worked, whether it could be lurking elsewhere within her body.

_Rest until you do not feel tired, however long that takes_. Jane's words ran through her head again, yet how could she sleep at such a time? She would try reading a little more of Lady Anne's journal, just enough until her mind was distracted, until she felt sleepy.

The entries were fewer and shorter, mostly comprised of Georgiana's development, punctuated only with:

" _February 17, 1797_

" _I had a letter today from Cathy to tell us Sir Lewis de Bourgh had died. Given her history my immediate thoughts on reading this were quite awful, but it seems there was a fever going around Hunsford and he caught it. Miraculously, Anne has been spared – they kept her far away from all who were ill, in a room with superior air, and so she never caught the fever. Poor Sir Lewis – he got the wife he wanted, but I do not think she made him happy, and now he is gone._

" _As for my little miracle girl, she does so well! She is walking quite steadily now, and is such a picture of health one would never think we spent the first months of her life worrying over her survival. She is quiet, like her brother was, and I think there is a goodly chance she has inherited my shyness, but I would much rather have two children who are shy and live than the alternative." _

It occurred to Elizabeth then that she did not have much more time left with Lady Anne, given Georgiana's mother had died when she was four. This time seemed to be the happiest of Anne's life, but it would not last. Elizabeth knew she would lose this woman she had come to care so much about; what she did not know was whether she would lose her youngest sister at the same time.

She did fall asleep, but it did not last; she awoke just before dawn, still feeling shallow and exhausted. Pulling on a dressing-gown, she went upstairs to Lydia's room. Yet there was Lydia lying in bed with her new daughter at her breast, looking healthy and happy, Jane sitting beside them and smiling sweetly at this new, more maternal form of her youngest sister.

_It will be a day or two, possibly three, before we know whether the fever will have set in_ , Georgiana had told her, and Elizabeth gazed at them all, wanting to hope but struggling to rouse it.


	43. Part 2, Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Catherine knew what Elizabeth had said about the afterbirth and that they should worry about Lydia, but Lydia still looked very well when her elder sister took up her shift to watch after her, and so Catherine decided she should hope. Mary had spelled Jane very early in the morning – she being the earliest riser of the three sisters, and then Catherine had taken over for her in the middle of the day. Lizzy wasn't allowed a shift, looking so unwell as she did herself, although Catherine understood she had sat with Lydia and Mary for a goodly portion of the morning.

"It's been nice of everyone to keep me company," said Lydia. "Having a baby is really nice but it's rather boring. It's nothing but her eating and me eating and her sleeping and me sleeping. Mary said it will be like that for a long time."

Catherine looked down at her lap. What she would not give, for that boredom!

"Aww, I'm sorry Kitty. I shouldn't have said that – I assume you wanted a baby but you can't – "

"No, I can't," said Catherine, more sharply than she intended.

"I wanted – this might be a good time or it might be an awful time – but I wanted to ask you if you would be one of her godmothers," said Lydia. "And there's something else I should tell you. I've decided to name her Catherine, after you. You and I always got on so well – you're my favourite sister but don't tell the others – although I know I said some mean things to you when we were last at Longbourn. I'm sorry I did that – I was jealous of you and your nice life with Captain Ramsey, but I shouldn't have blamed you for it."

Catherine's eyes filled with tears. "I accept your apology, and I would be very glad to be Catherine's godmother – I am honoured you would name her after me."

"I have something else I need to ask. Maybe you'll think it's crass of me but it's been worrying me – after papa dies, will Catherine and I be able to stay at Longbourn?"

Catherine laid her hand on Lydia's arm. "You and your daughter will always have a home at Longbourn. Please do not worry about that."

"Thank you, Kitty. It will be so nice when we finally go back to Longbourn. Pemberley is beautiful but it's not _home_."

"It will feel more like home when mama and papa get here, I think."

"It will," smiled Lydia. "I was hoping they'd be here today but surely they'll be here tomorrow."

"Let's hope so," said Catherine. "It will be so nice for all of us to be back together after so many years."

* * *

Jane had slept for most of the morning, but she had given over responsibility to Mary for enforcing Elizabeth's need to rest, and Mary had taken this responsibility as seriously as she took every responsibility. Thus Elizabeth had found herself allowed only a few hours of sitting in Lydia's room and had been shooed off to bed for the remainder of the afternoon and then evening.

She still struggled to sleep, but thought the rest was doing her some benefit, and she had progressed through the final years of Lady Anne's life – what had seemed the happiest years of that life. Anne had passed hopefully into the new century, and they were now spending the summer at the Lakes with the Fitzwilliams.

" _June 16, 1800_

" _We had such a lovely picnic today, down by Moss Eccles. Ellen brought her sketchbook and pencil with her and captured the nicest moment, when Fitzwilliam was leading little Georgiana down to the water to look at it, and Ellen says she is going to paint a watercolour of it for me. I have treasured all her gifts but I am sure I will treasure this one more than all the rest, for being of my darling children, together in such a sweet moment."_

Elizabeth rose and went to have a look at the painting again. It looked more ethereal in the twilight, and yet again she felt as though she could hear that time, that summer at the Lakes, the water and the birds and a much elder brother encouraging his sister to step nearer the shore.

She read on, learning of Mrs. Woburn's increasing age and her concern that she could not remain housekeeper for many more years. Martha Reynolds, the head housemaid, would begin training as her replacement. It was strange, to think of Mrs. Reynolds as a comparably young maid, as needing to be trained in the position of which she was now an exemplar. And then, to Elizabeth's surprise:

" _November 6, 1800_

" _Bonfire night, last night. The weather was good and we had very nice turnout from the farms and villages. Mr. Newton was there with his orphaned niece, Madeline. It was the first any of us had seen of the child since she came to live with him. She seems a nice, well-behaved sort of girl and made me a very pretty curtsey. I believe she shall be a nice addition to the neighbourhood."_

Elizabeth had not expected to see her aunt within these pages; Mrs. Gardiner had always made it seem as though she and uncle Newton had not merited notice from the Pemberley family. Yet this Elizabeth now saw as impossible: she, as the current mistress of Pemberley, knew every family within Lambton and Kympton. There were some of the middling sort she did not interact with often, but she knew of them and acknowledged them if she saw them. Elizabeth's aunt had thought herself beneath notice, but there could be no-one entirely so in a country neighbourhood. Her aunt could not be faulted for this impression, however, for Elizabeth realised Anne's notice might have been very like her son's, and therefore not comprehended by its recipient.

Elizabeth read on. Anne suspected she was pregnant again but was more sanguine about what she presumed to be the impending loss. She had her son and her little miracle girl now, and thought it too much to ask for greater blessings, prompting Elizabeth to think of her own three darling boys and whether it was asking too much to wish for a girl. At the back of the current journal, the pages were still crisp and new, and Elizabeth felt herself drawing ever closer to the end, less and less heartened by Anne's continued happiness. And then she found herself on the final page:

" _June 2, 1801_

" _I have lost the baby. Perhaps it was too much to hope for another after our little sweetling. She has been such a comfort to me, always ready to have a little snuggle with her mama and remind me of how much I have already been blessed with._

" _June 6, 1801_

" _I have been feeling a little unwell, and feverish. As there is no one else ill in the neighbourhood, Dr. Pratt said it was likely that I had not passed all of the baby when I bled and this had made me plethoric. He bled me more to try to reduce the excess inflammation and encouraged me to rest._

" _June 7, 1801_

" _Feeling a little worse today, but dearest George brought my two little angels in to see me and that cheered me very much. Fitzwilliam had made a bouquet from the gardens but I saw him hand it over to Georgiana to give to me while they were in the doorway. O what dear little hearts they both are! And George, how very much I love him. He is so good to me."_

There was no more. However many days remained after June 7 in Lady Anne Darcy's life, Elizabeth would likely never know. Raising the topic to either of her children could only cause them pain and was of no benefit to Elizabeth as the reader of these journals: Anne was gone, and had been for a very long time. The tears were streaming down Elizabeth's face and she noticed she was not the first person to cry over these entries, for there were two little mottled dots upon the page. It must have been George, she thought, George who had promised never to breach such pages again but had been required to close his wife's journal, to put it away on the shelf with the others, perhaps – Elizabeth hoped – reading the love inherent in her final entry. It must have pained him to be in her space, surrounded by her most private things; he had not even endeavoured to collect _Sir Charles Grandison_ and return him to the library.

Elizabeth's thoughts turned then to how Anne had died, a fever from the child she had lost. Would Lydia follow her because of the child she had borne? Elizabeth's tears deepened at the thought: she had lost a sort of friend; she might lose a sister. "And you will do it alone," she thought, "for you pushed away the man who loves you – you pushed away Lady Anne's darling boy." She spent a very long time sobbing wretchedly over such thoughts, and it took her a long time to calm herself before she would go to check on Lydia, for sleep would surely not come until she knew whether her sister was well.

Lydia was not well. She was grasping her belly, shivering and moaning in pain as Jane and her maid attended her. Jane looked up at Elizabeth as she entered, and as their eyes met Elizabeth knew her sister thought the same as she: this was most likely the beginning of the end.

"We've sent for Dr. Alderman," stated Jane.

"How long has she been like this?"

"An hour or so. She complained of chills first, and then the pain started in her belly."

A scullery maid came in with a pail full of coal and began laying a fire, and Jane gave her sister a look of significance before saying, "Lizzy – "

"You cannot chase me out now, Jane – I shall never sleep."

"Mary said if it happened, it will not be quick. We need to prepare ourselves for many days of this." Jane motioned toward the chaise at the foot of the bed. "If you want to lay there for a little while, though, I won't object to the company."

Elizabeth laid down, turning so she could still see Jane.

"Jane? Jane?" asked Lydia, in a plaintive voice, "when is mama going to be here? I want mama."

Jane soothed her and said she hoped mama would be there on the morrow, although Elizabeth thought but did not say that Lydia had the best possible nurse she could hope for with her presently. Mama would be hysterical; Jane was the very essence of calm patience.

"Jane, will this be – difficult – for you?" asked Elizabeth, concerned as she thought of what it must mean to Jane, to attend her sister after what had happened with Emma's birth.

"I am fine, so long as I do not think about what caused it," stated Jane. "Lydia is my sister and she has a fever, and I must do whatever I can to help her."

The fire caught through, and the room grew hot and thick. Lydia remained as she had been when Elizabeth had entered the room, curled up in pain on the bed, although she did seem to shiver a little less. Then she sat up with a start and said, "Where's my baby? How is little Catherine?"

"She is just in the other room, with Georgiana," said Jane. "I am sure she is just fine."

"I'll go check on her," said Elizabeth. Jane gave her a censorious look, but did not protest.

Elizabeth went across the hall, knocking and immediately entering Georgiana's old bedroom, never realising until she saw it that _Georgiana has her_ meant _Georgiana is feeding her_. In truth both Georgiana and Taylor were feeding the child, Georgiana holding the baby as Taylor dipped pieces of flannel into a pap boat and handed them to her, Georgiana placing the flannel into the child's mouth to suckle.

"Oh – goodness." Elizabeth realised with a start what they were doing – why it had become necessary – and that she and Georgiana were the only women in the house able to help the baby in this manner. "It was very kind of you to take her, Georgiana, but I can feed her after this. It is too much to ask of you, for someone who is not your blood relation, and I don't mind nursing her at my breast."

"Absolutely not, Elizabeth," said Georgiana, with a certain stubborn tilt of her chin that reminded Elizabeth painfully of her brother. "You are not well enough. I may not be Lydia's blood relation, or yours, but I _am_ still your sister. I would not mind nursing her at my breast, but we wanted to be careful for William's sake – we do not know what nursing from an ill mother has done to her own health, although she still appears well, thank God."

Elizabeth felt hot and ashamed and frightened. Even if she _could_ empty her own breasts of their milk – which she had never been able to do – she could not subject her niece to what might be milk tainted with cancer. She wondered again if she should even be allowing Charles to take it.

"I had not thought of that," was all she said in reply. "We cannot say what might happen, with the milk of an unhealthy woman."

"I did not mean you, Elizabeth."

"I know you did not, but – " Elizabeth could not say it aloud, but she finally allowed herself to believe the little nagging voice, believe that she might be truly sick " – we shall make as much help available to you as you need. If she can be fed thus, at least you will not need to wake every time she needs to nurse."

"Thank you. Taylor and I intend to stay up tonight, to ensure this is working well, but yes, after that we will need assistance."

Elizabeth slipped back into Lydia's bedroom and said, "Little Catherine is quite well – they are feeding her now."

"Thank God," moaned Lydia, looking relieved even as she clutched her belly tighter. "She has to stay well. She's the best thing I ever did."

Elizabeth walked back to her own bedchamber and cried until she finally fell asleep.

* * *

The Bennets did arrive the next afternoon, Mr. Bennet having found Elizabeth's express sufficiently urgent as to rouse his wife to immediate travel. They were all intensely glad to see Longbourn's carriage in the drive, for Lydia had been asking after her mother whenever she was awake. Before she could be given what comforts such a woman as Mrs. Bennet could offer, however, Mrs. Bennet first had to recover from what Mr. Bennet had told her only after the last change of horses – that they were not just travelling to Pemberley because Lydia was there, but because Lydia was heavily pregnant and might give birth at any time – and then to arrive upon Pemberley's doorstep and learn she was a grandmother yet again, but that her favourite daughter now suffered childbed fever.

Every imaginable wailing and fluttering possible followed these later revelations, but what did not happen was Mrs. Bennet's succumbing to her own nervous frailties, much to Elizabeth's surprise. She screamed, "Oh, poor Lydia! My poor, dear Lydia! My poor dear child!" and left several soaked handkerchiefs strewn through Pemberley's entrance-hall, but then somehow managed to summon some command over herself and say, "Where is she, Lizzy? Take me to her."

It was still Mary's turn to nurse her, but as soon as Mrs. Bennet entered the room it became clear that Lydia did not want the staid, capable nursing she had received since she had fallen ill: she wanted to scream and thrash and bemoan her pain and find sympathy in the mother who would scream and thrash and bemoan her pain with her, and then finally seek solace in the arms of that mother. She wanted possets ordered and her mother to go across the hall to see her daughter and return and tell her Catherine was surely the prettiest of all of her grandchildren, to talk of Catherine's future as though there was no doubt both Lydia and her daughter were going to return to Longbourn and give Mrs. Bennet a grandchild she could see and dote upon every day.

Elizabeth observed a goodly portion of this and then stepped out into the hall, where her father was seated in one of the chairs, looking grave.

"I did not tell her until we were nearly here," said he. "I did not even tell her we were going to see Lydia until we were in the carriage – anything I told her would have been spread throughout the neighbourhood immediately. She was so unhappy, that Lydia should come to Pemberley instead of Longbourn. Perhaps I should have told her all then, but it was enough of a shock just that Lydia was within the country."

"I am not sure there was a right way to tell her," said Elizabeth, sitting beside him. "They're together now, at least. Lydia has been asking for her."

"They were always so similar, in the worst possible ways," Mr. Bennet said.

"Papa, I think that is unfair. Lydia has been very courageous, throughout this. Perhaps still immature, but courageous."

"Certainly not so mature as her sister Lizzy, to be rightly correcting her own father." He gazed at her, and Elizabeth waited for him to ask after her health, but he said nothing. Perhaps he thought her appearance was merely due to the toll of the past few days with Lydia. "Where is Mr. Darcy?" he asked.

"He – he had gone to town on some business," said Elizabeth. "But you remind me that I had intended to write to recall him. Do you wish to walk down with me and get a book, from the library?"

"Nay, Lizzy, I cannot read now." His voice cracked, startling Elizabeth. "Despite all she has done, she is still my little girl, too."

Elizabeth therefore walked by herself down to Darcy's study, and for the first time felt strange to be writing at her little secretaire within that space, as though she was intruding. Perhaps she had been, all these years; Lady Anne had required privacy even from her beloved husband and son, and it was very likely her son wished for the same but would not say it.

"Perhaps I should ask, if ever he comes home," she thought bitterly. She reminded herself that this was unfair; she had pushed Darcy away in the first place, and in the absence of any response to her previous letter, had not written to him regarding the presence of _all_ of her sisters at Pemberley, still less that Lydia had given birth. Awakening that morning, though, she had been struck with the thought that she did need to write to Darcy now, that he should know Lydia was suffering childbed fever in his own home. So she dabbed the pen in the inkwell and wrote quickly:

"My love,

"Georgiana and Catherine are returned to the country, and they arrived here Wednesday with Lydia. She wished to flee Wickham and asked Georgiana for passage home, and was already many months in the family way. She gave birth to a baby girl two days ago, but the afterbirth did not pass, and when Dr. Alderman removed it, some remained within her. She took fever last night and my parents have just arrived. Mary is also here. I thought you would wish to know.

"ELIZABETH"

She folded and sealed it, and almost collided with Richardson as she left Darcy's study. He was coming out of the muniments room with a stack of papers in his hand and exclaimed, "Dear me, Mrs. Darcy, my deepest apologies – I didn't think there'd be anyone in this hallway."

"It is not your fault, Mr. Richardson – I thought the same."

"Mr. Darcy wrote to ask me to send him some old estate records," he said, glancing at the letter in her hand. "I've found them but I don't trust posting them, so I'm going to have Folger courier them down, if you've anything for Mr. Darcy you want him to carry."

So he had written to his steward, but had not responded to her. Elizabeth pressed the letter against her leg so Richardson could not see the address. "Thank you, that's very kind of you. This is for someone else, though," she lied.

"There's plenty of time, if you wish to write something," he said. "Folger won't set out 'till Monday morning."

"No, thank you. I wrote to Mr. Darcy just the other day."

He nodded. "If you change your mind, just leave it on my desk if I'm out. I'll see Folger carries it with him."

"Thank you, Mr. Richardson. I appreciate it."

Elizabeth walked down the hallway and tucked the letter away in her stays as she climbed the stairs. That evening, it tumbled out when Sarah loosened them so Elizabeth could nurse Charles, and she clasped it up and crumbled it into a ball in her hand. Sarah looked at her quizzically but said nothing, and left Elizabeth to nurse her son, the feeling of dread in her stomach growing stronger as he suckled.

When he was done, she again left instructions with Browning that she was not to be awakened, hoping that somehow, tomorrow might be the day he stopped insisting on the sustenance that might be poisoning him. If he did not, she pondered what might be done – or whether it was too late for anything to be done. He continued to cough and sneeze more than the other children, but otherwise seemed to be catching up in his development. Could it be that the cancer of the breast _had_ passed through him, but only impacted females? Dr. Alderman had said none of the colleagues he'd written to had ever heard of a cancer of the breast passing from one woman to another by a nursing baby, but at the same time it was uncommon for two women to have the sort of arrangement Elizabeth and Mrs. Nichols had used; typically women either opted for a wet nurse or did not, and Elizabeth would have done the latter but for the need to nurse twins as a new mother.

Dr. Whittling, she thought, was more likely to know a broader range of women who nursed their children – and more likely to have accoucheur acquaintances who knew similar circles of women. She could write to him tomorrow, she thought, and then it struck her that she ought to have written to him immediately after things had gone so badly with the birth. Might _he_ have been able to prevent Lydia's fever? And why had she not thought of it? A few moments of panicked thought made her understand that not only was her body tired – her mind was sluggish as well. However, she could request he come and attend Lydia now – surely he had attended more childbed fevers than Dr. Alderman, whose course of treatment thus far had consisted largely of laudanum, purgatives, and bleeding.

The letter was written as soon as Elizabeth awoke the next morning, and sent express. It would outpace Folger, and therefore Elizabeth suffered no questions as to why he might not carry it. The chance of Darcy hearing of the summons from Dr. Whittling was small, but Elizabeth wondered if Richardson had written anything of what was occurring in the house in his covering letter to the estate records. She wondered as well why Darcy was requesting such records, but then her thoughts returned to Lydia and she went upstairs.

Lydia had grown gradually worse overnight, and she grew still worse as a day passed, and then another day: Mary had been right to warn that if it happened, it would not be quick. Mrs. Bennet was constantly in the room, comforting her daughter and bringing in little Catherine when Lydia was awake so that she could see her baby. Elizabeth had never seen her mother so indefatigable, sleeping a few hours here and there on the chaise in the room, but otherwise by Lydia's side the entire time. Watching her mother made Elizabeth herself feel more tired, for she understood she did not presently possess the stamina to do what Mrs. Bennet did.

Dr. Whittling's response to Elizabeth's express arrived on Tuesday and was not what Elizabeth had hoped for: he had a patient due to enter her confinement within days and could not leave town at such a time. What he wrote next was still more concerning: "There are two schools of thought, as regards puerperal fever. One is that it is an inflammatory disease and should be combatted with bloodletting, purgatives, and a lowering diet, and the other is that it is a disease of putrid humours, and bloodletting in particular causes a dangerous weakness. I belong firmly to the latter school, although I fear I must tell you that once the fever sets in, chances for the mother are not good, regardless of the treatment. I have enclosed the receipt for a draught made with Jesuit's bark that I find has some efficacy; your local apothecary should be able to make it up. It should be given to her every six hours, along with twenty drops of laudanum for the pain whenever it is needed. I will pray for her."

The letter had been delivered to her in the little sitting room down the hall from Lydia's bedroom; it had become the gathering-place for all the family who were not in Lydia's bedchamber with her or Georgiana's dressing-room with the baby. Mary and Captain Ramsey were there with her, and it was Mary who commented on the distress in her countenance.

"What is it, Lizzy?"

Elizabeth handed her the letter, and Mary read silently.

"I think I must ask Dr. Alderman to stop bleeding her," said Elizabeth. "It is plain he belongs to the inflammatory school."

Mary shook her head. " _You_ shouldn't do anything. It should be up to Lydia. I'll go with you, if you wish."

The sisters walked down the hall to Lydia's room, where she was retching into a basin held by her maid, Mrs. Bennet rubbing her back as she did so. Catherine was there as well, seated in a chair holding her namesake and looking stricken at the sight of her sister.

Elizabeth waited until Lydia had finished and was eased back down onto the pillows by her mother. She looked pale and weak, although the laudanum did seem to be helping with her pain.

"Lydia," Elizabeth said softly. "I wrote to a doctor in town who specialises in childbirth – his name is Dr. Whittling. I had hoped he could come out and attend your fever, but he has another patient due to give birth and could not leave her. He said there are two schools of thought as regard childbed fever – one is that it is inflammatory and must be treated with purgatives and bloodletting, and the other that it is putrid and bloodletting should not be done, as it causes weakness. He believes it is the latter and wrote me a receipt for a draught. We want to know what you wish to do – we can cease the purgatives and ask Dr. Alderman to stop drawing blood, if you wish."

Lydia's countenance showed only a few moments' contemplation before she spoke. "I'm tired of all the vomiting and I just feel worse after he takes more blood. I don't want to do it anymore."

"We'll send someone to Kympton, then, to have the apothecary make up the draught."

"Thank you, Lizzy," murmured Lydia. "Can I speak to Kitty alone, please?"

They all obeyed her request, although her most faithful attendant looked perturbed to be asked to leave. Catherine rose from where she had been seated with the baby and stepped closer to the bed.

Lydia smiled at the child. "She's so pretty, and she's such a good baby. I think she hardly ever cries."

"Yes, I believe she is. Georgiana said so as well."

"She's very nice – Georgiana, I mean. And brave, too, to do what she did to help me get away from Wickham. I don't think I'll ever be able to thank her enough."

Catherine's eyes filled with tears, for it had been on her mind these past few days that if Lydia had remained with Wickham – if he had made her lose this child – she would not be here, suffering this fever.

"Don't cry, Kitty. It was my choice and I don't regret it – no matter what happens," said Lydia. She writhed in discomfort for some moments, but then continued, "If I die, Kitty – "

"Oh Lydia – "

" – you have to let me finish, Kitty. This isn't easy. If I die, I want you and Captain Ramsey to take her. I know you've wanted a baby."

"Not like this!" exclaimed Catherine, her tears spilling over.

"I know. But if it comes to that, I know you'll love her and you'll give her a wonderful life."

"I'll do that regardless," said Catherine. "You cannot give up yet, Lydia. Maybe this draught from Lizzy's physician will help you."

"Maybe it will, but I want things to be settled, in case I don't make it, so I want you to say it, Kitty: will you promise to take her and love her as your own?"

"I will," sobbed Catherine. She bowed her head and watched as Lydia's tremulous hand reached out to stroke the downy hair of the child in her arms.

"Thank you, Kitty." Lydia withdrew her arm. "I'm very tired now – I want to sleep. Will you send mama back in?"

Catherine said that she would and left the room sobbing, her namesake still in her arms. She carried the child into Georgiana's dressing-room, which had been converted into a sort of nursery for the baby, laid her down in her cradle, and then sat beside it and cried until her tears were spent. It was only then that she looked up and noticed Andrew had joined her in the room. He was gazing at her with concern.

"Lydia wants us to take the baby, if she passes," she said, tremulously. "I wanted a child so badly, but not at that cost."

He pulled a chair before her and took up her hands. "That cost is not your fault, Cat. Lydia is suffering what a great many women before her have suffered, and a great many after will too, I fear. Many of them won't know the comfort of leaving their child to a good home. Your sister knows you – she knows the love you would give the child. If she passes, she'll go with that comfort."

"I hardly know how to look at her, now – the baby. I hope I remain her aunt, but I might be her mother."

"We'll look at her as a child we're going to love, regardless of what happens to Lydia. There's nothing wrong with that, my sweet Cat."

* * *

Charles Bingley arrived late that evening and was ushered into the sitting-room upstairs. The mood of the servants had already given him to understand something was amiss in the house, and he was appraised of the whole of it by his wife.

"My God," said he, in horrified accents.

Elizabeth suspected by his countenance that he was recalling Emma's birth, that he was reminded of how they had worried for Jane after that event. She exchanged a highly conscious glance with him, but neither of them spoke of it.

"How is Lady Harrison?" she asked, before Jane could follow them into such reminiscences.

"She – she is well," said Charles. "Worried the child was a girl, but otherwise well."

"I think considering the circumstances we face here, she ought to consider herself fortunate," snapped Elizabeth.

"You are right, of course, but it is still cause for worry – for her future," said Charles. "Sir Sedgewick's estate is entailed."

"Oh – I had not realised that."

"She was confident she would have a boy, Lizzy, but then so were our parents," said Jane. "She will have to keep bearing children until she either has a boy or cannot have any more."

Too thoroughly reminded of the risks of childbirth, they were silent after this until Jane once again very firmly bade her younger sister to go to bed.

* * *

Dr. Alderman arrived early the next morning to check on his patient and got into a lengthy argument with Mary about honouring Lydia's wishes to stop the bleeding and purgatives. Mary held firm, however, so he merely checked Lydia's pulse and said there was nothing more he could do if she insisted on declining his treatments.

Lydia had begun taking the new draught the previous night, but they had yet to see anything that could be called improvement. That came after she took the draught again that evening and seemed to rally. Her stomach did not pain her quite so much as it had before, and her pulse, while still fast, was no longer racing as it had for most of the past few days. Her colour still had not improved, but her spirits clearly had, and she asked Catherine to bring the baby in so she could hold her.

"I wish my milk was still working, so I could nurse her," said Lydia.

"Why all you girls wish to do so, I will not understand," said Mrs. Bennet. "It was my great relief, to have Mrs. Pooks to handle that. I had a household to run, of course, and not so many servants as Lizzy or Jane. But you, Lydia, you should just concern yourself with getting better, my dear. You do look much better – thank goodness Lizzy wrote to that fancy town doctor of hers."

"I feel different, mama. I'm not so sure I'm better."

"Well of course not. It will take many days for that, dear child. But you have a strong constitution, and I'm sure in time you'll feel just as you were."

Lydia held her child until the baby fell asleep, and then Catherine returned the infant to the dressing-room. Jane was just coming down the hall and as the two sisters entered Lydia's bedchamber, Lydia said, "Kitty, I wonder if you might stay up with us tonight. I want to talk more, and I feel badly that we're keeping Jane from her husband for two nights in a row."

"Mary's husband is here as well," Jane informed them. "He arrived a half-hour or so ago."

"Maybe we should take turns in staying up," said Catherine. "I'd be glad to do so tonight. And mama, you really ought to lie down."

"Thank you, Kitty, I think I will. I'll sleep easier now, I'm sure." Mrs. Bennet laid herself down on the chaise as Jane kissed Lydia's cheek and then left the room.

* * *

Mary had hoped David would return much sooner, although she was immensely glad when the knock at her door proved to be him. He asked what had happened, for it was readily apparent to him that there had been some disruption within the house, and Mary told him of all that had occurred with Lydia.

"She seemed to be rallying, this evening, but – " Mary could not finish her statement, and did not need to. David had been the one to tell her that people often rallied just before death.

He embraced her tightly. "I am sorry I could not be here sooner. There was a woman in Lostock who gave birth as well, and the outcome was much the same. She passed this morning."

"Lydia is strong, and Lizzy got the directions for a draught from her accoucheur. I keep hoping she might be one of the few who survives. Hoping and praying, of course."

"Why do we not pray for her now?" he asked.

They knelt together beside the bed and he murmured a quiet prayer, asking God to bless the child and preserve the life of her mother so that they might have more time together before being reunited in Heaven. Then he changed into his nightshirt and got into bed with her.

"What happened with your father?" Mary whispered. After all that had occurred with Lydia, it was strange to recall what had made her come to Pemberley in the first place.

"I told him there would be no formal, public break with him so long as he promises never to enter my home again. He did not take that well and I had to hear as much about honouring and obeying my father as you could ever imagine. In time, though, he accepted it. He has gone to town, to speak to what contacts he has about finding a non-conformist church that suits his style of preaching. I tried to give him money to aid him while he is there, but he would not accept it."

"It must have been difficult, to stand up to him," whispered Mary.

He blinked, and gave a long, tremulous sigh. "It was the most difficult thing I've ever done in my life."

"Do you want to talk about it? Or talk about your childhood?" Mary felt awkward, asking such questions; she felt ill-equipped to be the wife of someone who had experienced his childhood. In that moment she wished she was more like Jane, not just full of natural sweetness and sympathy, but able to express them so smoothly.

"No, I don't think so, but I thank you for asking, Mary. This has all dredged up memories I would rather have kept buried. What I want is to provide a better home – a safer home – for your and our children, than the one I knew growing up." He gazed at her intensely and then added, "Mary, how has your health been? The child?"

"I have not bled. I am hoping that is a positive sign, but I think I shall not know more until the quickening, and it will be some time before then."

David nodded and fell asleep quickly in the lull in their conversation. Mary realised he would have been up much of the previous night, if he had been called out to give last rites to a woman in the late stages of childbed fever. The thought of last rites troubled her, and she endeavoured to calm her mind, praying once more before she could follow him into sleep.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The Stantons were used to this sort of disruption, to the pounding on their front door at all hours in the night because the presence of the rector was needed somewhere within his parish. This was much nearer and louder, though, and with a start Mary awoke and found David had already risen and was pulling on his dressing-gown. She followed him to the door, where Georgiana's maid was standing.

"Mrs. Wickham's much worse, an' it might be any hour she'll be needin' a clergyman, so I said I'd come an' wake ye."

Mary bowed her head. She had seen death – had seen it more than any of her sisters, save perhaps Georgiana – but it was one thing to think of a neighbour dying, and quite another to consider, really truly consider, the imminent death of her own sister. She followed them down the hallway to Lydia's room, where she laid in the bed being tended by Mrs. Bennet and Catherine, both of them looking panicked. Lydia's countenance was marked with deeper pain than before, and every breath seemed to be a struggle. Worse still, she seemed disoriented, confused as to where she was and how she had got in such a state.

David gave Mary a long, sympathetic look and then knelt by the side of the bed with his prayerbook. It was not called last rites, in the prayerbook. It was called "A commendatory Prayer for a sick Person at the point of departure." Mary knew it better than she would have liked to, knew even before he reached the words how David would beseech God to wash Lydia's soul of whatsoever defilements it may have contracted in the midst of a miserable and naughty world through the lusts of the flesh or the wiles of Satan. As he did read the words, she thought of how she had judged Lydia for her frailty, and only later come to understand they were both sinners – they were all sinners, every single Bennet daughter, every single person on the earth – they had just committed different sins. At a less mature point in her life, Mary had thought some sins – outside the Ten Commandments – were more important than others. She knew better, now.

Mrs. Bennet did not take well to the reading of this prayer, to the notion that her daughter was this close to death, and she wailed and sobbed through the final words. Jane and papa appeared in the doorway – someone must have summoned them – and drew chairs in from the hallway to sit around the bed. Mary hoped someone had gone to get Lizzy – they were taking care of her health, although it was still not clear what precisely was wrong with her – and was glad to see her come through the door a few minutes later, escorted by her maid.

Lydia _was_ strong, though, and in the hour that followed, it became clear she was not done fighting. Her pain did not lessen, but she seemed to gain some greater lucidity.

"Where is she?" Lydia asked. "Where is little Catherine? I want to see her again."

Elizabeth's maid slipped from the room and returned carrying the child. The baby was sleeping, and she was laid down on her mother's chest, her namesake holding a hand atop the child's back to ensure she did not tumble off if Lydia thrashed. Poor Catherine was sobbing even worse than her mother as she stood there with mother and daughter, and Lydia rolled her eyes towards her sister and said, "Don't cry Kitty. Tell me nice things. Tell me about her future."

Catherine looked horrified at this request, but spoke as best she could while struggling not to sob and hiccough, "She'll – she'll be heiress of Longbourn – and – and the rest of our fortune."

"My baby, heiress of Longbourn. Lord, who would have thought it?" murmured Lydia. "She'll have nice dresses and go to balls and assemblies, won't she?"

"Y – yes. She'll never want for anything. She'll have many nice dresses, and drawing and language and music lessons, and anything else she wants," sobbed Catherine.

"Don't let her come out too soon, though. You can make really stupid mistakes, when you're too young to know what you're doing and you're out in society."

"No, we won't – we won't do that. We'll wait until she's eighteen at least, maybe longer. And we'll – we'll love her very much. We'll do everything we can, to give her the happiest of homes."

"Yes. She'll be happy – she'll be very happy, I'm sure of it."

Catherine now appeared too overcome to continue, but it did not matter, for Lydia's eyes had closed and her breathing grew more laboured. Mary looked around the room to find every member of her family weeping, even Mr. Bennet, who held his wife tight against his chest, Mrs. Bennet shaking with tears. Silently, the tears still streaming down her face, Catherine picked up the baby. The child stirred and opened her eyes, but then settled, snuggled tight against her aunt's chest.

How long they all sat in silence, Mary could not tell. There was a timelessness to these periods of waiting; it might have been minutes, it might have been dozens of minutes, as they watched Lydia's breath grow more and more laboured. Then, suddenly, she raised her head. It was still mere inches from the pillow, but more than Mary would have thought she had the strength for. "Ribbons!" she whispered. She gasped for air as her head dropped back onto the pillow, and then exhaled. She did not breathe again.


	44. Part 2, Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Georgiana had held herself out of Lydia's crowded bedchamber, feeling that room should be for those who had once been Bennets, or still were. But she knew Lydia had finally passed when an inhuman scream came from across the hall: it was the sound of a woman who now knew with certainty that she had survived her daughter. Georgiana bowed her head and thought of how she would feel if Caroline grew up to suffer the same fate, and she ached with sympathy for Mrs. Bennet.

Mrs. Bennet's wailing finally softened and then dissipated, but after some time it was replaced with the crying of the infant across the hall. Catherine wandered into the hallway holding the child and looking disoriented. Captain Ramsey had been waiting in the hall as well, and rose alongside Georgiana.

"She – she – she won't stop crying," said Catherine, tears streaming down her face. "I don't know what to do – she's lost her mother and she won't stop crying."

Georgiana stepped closer and laid her hand on Catherine's arm. "At her age, she either wants comfort, food, or to have her tailclout changed. Come with me, and we'll see which it is."

A quick check proved it was the tailclout that was problematic, and the Ramseys were given a demonstration by Moll Taylor on the changing of tailclouts. Watching them, Georgiana wondered if Captain Ramsey would prove as adept as Matthew was at applying them, suffered some strong pangs over Matthew's absence, and then recalled herself to the poor Ramseys's situation. No-one had told Georgiana directly that the child had been left to their care, but it was plain enough to her now; it was the most logical choice, that Lydia's childless sister should adopt the baby. Logical it might have been, but it was also plainly shocking and painful: most couples had more than a half-year to adjust to the coming of a child, but the Ramseys had become parents instantly and tragically.

Once little Catherine was changed, she calmed considerably, and Catherine picked her up, still looking stunned.

"Why don't you feed her?" asked Georgiana. "It has been some time since she's nursed and she'll likely be crying for that soon."

Catherine had fed her namesake periodically, but as she was settled in with the child and the basin and flannel, it was clear this time was very different. Quietly, she dipped the cloth into the basin and brought it to the baby's mouth; over and over again she did this, until finally she looked up.

"I wanted a child, but never like this," she whispered tremulously.

"Never forget that you have done nothing wrong," said Georgiana. "All you have done and all you will do is _right_. That child needs love and a family, and you can give it to her. You can honour your sister's memory by caring for her baby as she would have wanted to."

"Lydia said the baby was the best thing she ever did."

"I think she will be that for the both of you," said Georgiana.

* * *

Catherine held the baby until the child began to get drowsy, then laid her down in the cradle. She was aware of Georgiana leaving the room and Andrew coming to stand beside her, but mostly she focused on the sleeping baby, considering their future as a family. Then she recalled Lydia – poor, dead, Lydia – across the hall. She turned and embraced Andrew tightly, then went thither.

Papa was seated outside the hallway and said, "They're preparing her now. It was too much for Mrs. Bennet; we made her take a laudanum draught and I took her to bed," Tears pooled in his eyes and he added, "I feared she would be the child we buried, but never like this, Catherine – never like this."

Catherine leaned over and embraced her father, then entered the bedchamber. Her sisters and Mrs. Reynolds had removed Lydia's nightgown and they were silently wiping her limbs with dampened pieces of flannel. Taylor and Kelly were there as well, bringing them new pieces of flannel and bustling about in general helpfulness. Lydia's maid was seated on the chaise, weeping copiously.

"Catherine, will you go through her trunks and find a shift for her?" asked Elizabeth, upon noticing her sister's entrance.

There had been only two trunks, of Lydia's possessions. Catherine opened the first trunk and found it filled with more fine dinner dresses and ball gowns than she would have expected – all of them a bit outmoded, but of good quality. She held each up in the candlelight and thought bitterly of how they would have been worn, as part of George Wickham's manipulations of his wife and the men he had her seduce. Sighing, she opened the other trunk and found two more ball gowns. Catherine had no desire to wear her dead sister's clothing in addition to taking her child, and she thought the rest of her sisters would be in agreement. The dresses should all be offered as perquisites to poor Fanny, and gazing at the maid, Catherine wondered how much of her weeping was due to sadness over her mistress's death and how much was due to what that death meant for her: that she was alone and unemployed in a strange land. Now was not the time, but Catherine vowed she would speak to the young woman and offer her employment with the Ramseys or passage home, depending upon what she preferred. They could easily afford it, and Catherine thought it would be helpful to have a personal maid now that she had a child, someone who could assist her with everything she needed. Fanny did not seem to be blessed with a particularly strong stomach, but Catherine would not be bearing any children, so it was likely she would not need it.

Catherine turned her attention to the remainder of the contents of Lydia's trunks. She had already known by what Lydia wore during the journey back to England that her sister possessed fewer day dresses, and these and another pair of stays comprised most of the rest of the trunk. Finally, in the bottom corner, Catherine found a bundle of shifts, and unwrapping them she saw what Lydia had meant by _ribbons_. There was a little stack of short pieces of ribbon, the top one embroidered with a date: "November 15, 1818." Each of the four ribbons held a date, and with tears streaming down her face, Catherine understood that each ribbon had been a pregnancy Lydia had lost – had been forced to lose.

It took Catherine time to recover from this discovery, but once she did, she knew what needed to be done. She handed Elizabeth's maid the nicest of the shifts, and then turned to her task. There was a length of the same ribbon rolled up within the trunk and she removed it, went back to her room for her work bag, and then seated herself in the corner, cutting off a piece of ribbon of the same length that Lydia had used. As her sisters and the housekeeper put on Lydia's shift and Kelly and Taylor set about her hair, Catherine worked. And when finally they were done, when Lydia – pale, dead, beautiful Lydia – was lying there awaiting her shroud, with her hair as modish as it had ever been, Catherine walked over with the stack of ribbons and slipped them beneath her sister's stiffening hands. The last, the one she had embroidered, read:

"August 27, 1819"

"Catherine"

* * *

They made Lizzy leave to go rest, but the rest of the Bennet sisters stayed together for some time longer, in Lydia's bedroom. It was almost as if they needed this time to adjust to the idea of Lydia's being dead, even though they had all witnessed her passing, Mary thought. She had seen this before, in those within the parish who had suffered loss, and so it was not an entirely new experience for her. Witnessing it in others and experiencing it herself were not at all the same, though.

Dawn was coming, not yet there but imminent. This was an hour of the day Mary had not known, as Mary Bennet; she had always been an early riser, but it was only after marriage that she had found herself often awake at this time. Babies do not wait for convenient hours to feel hunger or soil their tailclouts; parishioners do not give birth or fall ill or die merely during the daytime.

They sat there together, three sisters living and one dead, until that first faint hint of additional light showed on the horizon outside the window. The light grew and grew, and it occurred to Mary that her sister would never know another sunrise on this earth. She wondered what sunrises looked like, from Heaven, if the perspective was different – if they could even be seen at all.

Bong. Bong. Bong. They were ringing the bell in the chapel. Lizzy must have directed them to wait until dawn, when those of the staff who had not been up overnight would be awakening. There were more people working within Pemberley's walls than lived in many villages, and yet Lizzy managed them with such poise. Perhaps that was why she had seemed so exhausted lately; perhaps the chaos her sisters had brought upon her doorstep had added too many burdens atop Lizzy's existing ones. Mary was petrified of losing Lizzy, too.

Eventually Catherine rose and said she wanted to check on the baby, her voice tremulous as she did so. Jane looked at Mary and said, "I know David only arrived last night – I'll sit with her this morning."

Mary nodded. "I'll come back and spell you, later."

David was waiting in the sitting-room down the hall, his countenance grave.

"Jane is going to watch her now," said Mary. "We should try to get some rest."

"I would like to see Marianne, before we do."

Mary had not forgotten the trauma that had first brought her and her daughter to Pemberley, but it had not been strong upon her mind. It still was for David, clearly, and rightfully so, when his child had been afraid of him when last he had seen her. Mary had no idea whether this would still be the case; Marianne had seemed fully recovered and unconcerned whenever Andrew Ramsey had visited the nursery with Catherine, but being unafraid of a man and being unafraid of a man bearing strong familial resemblance to the one who had harmed her were two very different things.

Mary agreed readily that they should go to see their daughter, and they walked there silently.

"I'll go in and tell her you're here, first," said Mary, "so she's not startled."

Although the nursery had been filled with far more children than had been expected, beds had not been an issue because the three girls, as well as Caroline's immense dog, had all decided they should squeeze themselves into one bed, and they liked to remain there in the mornings, patting the dog and whispering amongst themselves. They were thus when Mary entered, and Marianne brightened upon seeing her mother, snuggling into her mother's embrace as Mary kissed the top of her head.

"Marianne, papa is here. Would you like to see him?"

"Papa!" Marianne cried exuberantly, and upon hearing this David strode across the room, taking his daughter's outstretched arms as an invitation to pick her up and hold her.

Marianne pressed herself against her father's chest, and Mary contemplated the resilience of children. The incident had been awful for the poor child and yet she had recovered – fully, it seemed – and Mary was of the hope that it had done no permanent harm. If the event had been repeated – if it had not been an aberration in the child's life – Mary expected it would have formed the same sort of trauma that still troubled her husband all these years later. But it would not be repeated; David had stood up to the man who had caused all of that trauma, and Richard Stanton would not be allowed to harm another generation.

Mary had not cried, yet, but the sight in front of her was such as to bring tears to her eyes, and it was not long before she surrendered to weeping. She cried for happiness over their reunited family, and sadness over losing Lydia, reaching out to embrace both husband and child and feeling such a turmoil of emotions as she had never felt before.

* * *

Elizabeth laid awake in her bed, listening to the chapel bell toll and waiting for the laudanum to take effect. She had avoided laudanum draughts thus far but had decided one was necessary now; she needed to be rested, for there were decisions to make, things to be done. Even in her sluggish, grieved mind, she knew this. It was why the bell was ringing in the chapel and not in Lambton. There was something else her mind comprehended, and that was the loneliness of her bed. There had been embraces amongst all of her family, in those awful minutes after Lydia had passed, but now Mrs. Bennet, Jane, Mary, and Catherine all had husbands here to comfort them. Elizabeth had no one, and no notion of when her husband would ever return. She recalled his kindnesses at other difficult times in her life and laid there silently, the tears spilling from her eyes and soaking the pillow.

It was after noon when she finally awakened, feeling much better rested than she had for some time although groggy from the laudanum. She was particularly grateful for Sarah, whose countenance was marked with a deep sympathy, her touch gentle and her voice soothing. When she had completed her mistress's hair, Elizabeth turned and embraced her, much to Sarah's surprise, although she returned the embrace.

"Thank you, Sarah – for everything you do. I'm very grateful to you."

Sarah nodded, and blinked. "You're welcome, ma'am – Elizabeth."

Once again the family had congregated in the little sitting room down the hall from Lydia's bedchamber. A Pembroke table had been brought in; it was laden with a goodly quantity of breakfast foods, tea, and coffee. Elizabeth took a slice of toast and a cup of tea, and seated herself beside Jane and Charles. Mary and David were seated in the chairs across from her, and she was informed Catherine and Andrew were down the hall with the baby. Elizabeth sat and ate her toast, and when it was finished, forced herself to eat another slice. As she finished it, Mr. Bennet entered, followed by his weeping wife. For once in her life, Mrs. Bennet was completely silent; she sat heavily in a chair and continued to weep until Mr. Bennet pressed a tea cup and saucer into her hand. She took a few sips, then returned to weeping.

Elizabeth sighed, and rose to go and get the others from down the hall. Catherine and Andrew readily saw the need for the summons, but Georgiana was reluctant, saying she was not Lydia's blood sister and should not be included.

"You are providing the baby's sustenance," said Elizabeth. "You are as involved in this as any of us."

At this statement, Georgiana nodded, rose, and followed Elizabeth with apparent reluctance, leaving Catherine and William to the care of her nurse. They all sat and stared at Elizabeth once this was done, and she felt the absence of her husband still more. He had become the de facto head of their family, this had occurred in his house, and with him absent she was to be regarded as his proxy. She would have to solve this.

"We need to decide what is to be done with Lydia – and the child," she said.

"I thought she wanted Catherine and Andrew to take the baby, if she passed," said Jane.

"She did, and of course they are the best choice, but we cannot forget that George Wickham still has a legal right to the baby."

"Lizzy, you cannot possibly be contemplating giving her over to him!" cried Catherine.

"No, of course not, Kitty – Catherine – I am sorry, I spoke poorly. What I meant is that we must remember he has a legal right to the child."

"He cannot claim it, though, not without returning to England and the courts here, at the risk of being taken up as a deserter and hanged," said Mary.

"Wickham will not do that. What he would do is use the existence of the child as leverage to draw money from this family," said Georgiana. She and Elizabeth exchanged glances, both of them very well aware that by _this family_ , she meant her brother. "He will threaten to claim the child unless he is paid, and we will likely never know peace in the matter until she reaches her majority."

"It would be better for everyone if she was thought to be Catherine Ramsey," said Charles. He said it almost casually, and Elizabeth was grateful to him for it, for gently introducing what would be the best course for little Catherine. The others nodded in clear agreement, save her namesake, who appeared discomfited by the notion.

"Won't her birth need to be recorded in the parish?" asked Catherine.

"Births often go unrecorded," said David. "No-one would be the wiser, if she was christened later as Catherine Ramsey in another parish, and that became the first record of her existence. I cannot say that I condone it, but this is an unusual case. I think God would forgive a deception made for such a pure motive as to protect an innocent child."

Elizabeth glanced around the room, assessing the countenances of her family. They all seemed in agreement save Mrs. Bennet, who was still weeping.

"Mama," she said, "what think you of this plan?"

"My poor dear child did everything she could to protect her baby from that man and I will not let him have any power over her," stated Mrs. Bennet, with shocking vehemence.

"Mrs. Bennet, you will have a role to play in this," said her husband. "Catherine was known to be travelling to America. It would be believable, that she had a baby while sailing back or shortly after her return – so long as it can be spread convincingly about the neighbourhood."

"I'll do it," stated Mrs. Bennet, wiping at her eyes with her handkerchief. "I'll do whatever I must for poor Lydia's baby."

"Catherine and Andrew, you could stay with us at Stanton Hall for a time with the baby, and have her christened at Bishop's Barrow," said Georgiana. "It would have been the logical place for you to have the child if you were too far along in the family way to travel farther from Portsmouth. While you are there, I can continue to – to help you feed her, so we need not involve a wet nurse."

The Ramseys both nodded, although Catherine looked deeply pained to be agreeing to such a thing. There was still the more difficult matter to get to, though, and Elizabeth wished her mind was not so sluggish, still laden with laudanum and grief and exhaustion.

"We must also decide where and how to bury Lydia," she said softly. "Wickham is clever. If word of her death at such a time reaches him, it would not be a great leap to comprehend what truly happened."

"But he is in America – how would he ever hear of it?" asked Jane.

"The chances of it are low, but it is too great a chance to take," stated Mary. "He grew up in this area, and it is possible he still corresponds with someone in one of the nearby villages. Even if Wickham never learns of it, the death of a sister at the same time a child is born to another sister – one that had previously been childless – it would raise suspicions, suspicions which would impact poor Catherine and the rest of our children. _We_ know Lydia did not bear the child out of wedlock, but the rest of the world does not."

"I'll tell whatever tale I must for the sake of her baby, but I'll not have my Lydia buried improperly," said Mrs. Bennet.

"We have, I believe, a place where she can be buried quietly, but still properly," said Elizabeth. "Pemberley's cemetery is consecrated, and we have a clergyman here who would – I hope – be able to perform the ceremony."

Everyone looked to David, and he nodded. "I will do it, but I would want a coroner to see her before she is buried. I realise the risk that he may speak of it, but a young woman is dead and there is a difference between burying her quietly and burying her deceptively."

"Dr. Alderman is our nearest coroner," said Elizabeth. "I do not believe he will wish to spread this abroad any more than the rest of us."

They all gazed at Mrs. Bennet, whose countenance showed a slight wavering in her resolve. "I don't like the idea of her being all alone, though, Lizzy, her and a graveyard full of old Darcys."

Elizabeth would join Lydia there someday, but she did not mention this. Instead, she said, "Her mother- and father-in-law are already there. She would not be alone – she would be with family, even if she has not met them in this world – perhaps she has by now, in Heaven. I will be here, to ensure her grave is tended, and you will all be able to see her whenever you visit Pemberley. When enough time has passed, we will put a marker on her grave with a false date, one that would make it impossible that she could have died bearing Wickham's child."

Mrs. Bennet looked a little mollified by this and made no further protest. They all sat quietly for a time, burdened by the weight of what they had agreed to do. Catherine rose to leave first, stating she should check on the baby, and Elizabeth followed her from the room. She did not go to the dressing-room-turned-nursery, however. There was far more she needed to do if they were to succeed in burying Lydia quietly. She asked Mrs. Reynolds to gather all of the staff within the servant's hall in a half-hour and went down to the master's study to write another note to Darcy. This one _must_ be sent; it could no longer be avoided. Like her last, she wrote the barest facts of what had happened and what they intended to do, and gave it to Parker to be sent express. Then she trudged down to the servant's hall. She was five minutes early but informed by Mrs. Reynolds that everyone was there. The hall was not meant to hold so many of them at once – not only the indoor staff but the gardeners and those who worked in the stables and elsewhere on the grounds were assembled within. Jasper was standing towards the front of the group and Elizabeth was glad, for she would need his help more than anyone save Sarah Kelly and Moll Taylor, who had already begun sewing Lydia's shroud. They were all staring at her expectantly, and Elizabeth bowed her head, gathering strength. This was much to ask of them, and she was asking it without the sanction of the man who had been their master for far longer than she had been their mistress. Would they be loyal enough to her to do as she asked?

"Thank you – " her voice was not nearly loud enough, she realised, and she began again. "Thank you all for gathering here. It has been a very difficult week, I know. For those of you who were not aware, my sister, Mrs. Wickham, passed away early this morning."

Shock, murmurings. Most of the indoor staff had at least been aware of Mrs. Wickham's fever, but it appeared many others had not known her to be ill, still less on her deathbed. Quickly, though, they refocused their attention on Elizabeth.

She drew a shaky breath. "In talking of what is best to be done for her child, we have decided she should be christened and raised as Catherine Ramsey. I am not sure how many of you know, or know of, Mr. Wickham, but he was a child of this house who turned out to be a dissolute, manipulative man."

To this, Mrs. Reynolds nodded vigorously, which seemed to do much to convince those who had not known Wickham when he had lived there.

"Wickham would not be a good father to this child, and indeed I doubt he would ever wish to take on the responsibility, but what he will endeavour to do is use the child as leverage to cause your master a great deal of trouble. It is our desire that he never knows of the existence of the child, and to aid in this we intend to bury Mrs. Wickham quietly, in the cemetery here. Mr. Stanton will perform the ceremony – everything will be done properly – but I am asking that you do not speak of Mrs. Wickham or the baby. I am not asking that you lie, merely that you do not speak of them. I ask this not just because of your fealty to Pemberley, but for the sake of the child. She deserves to grow up within a loving family without being used as a pawn by an unscrupulous man."

Nodding heads. There were so many of them it was difficult to gauge every single countenance, but it seemed Elizabeth's speech had convinced the lot of them.

Jasper raised his hand, and Elizabeth nodded to him. "You'll be needin' a coffin, won't ye, ma'am?"

"Yes, Jasper. I would be very obliged if you can make one, as quickly as it can be done."

"I can have one done by tomorrow if'n you're wantin' just wood. I'd need a plumber for lead."

"Wood will be fine, but I believe Mrs. Wickham would have wished for decoration."

Jasper nodded. "Still no difficulty. I'll have it done for tomorrow, ma'am, you've my word."

"Thank you, Jasper. Please enlist anyone you need for help, and any fabric within the house is at your disposal, for the decoration. Yes, Sutton?"

"Where'll ye be wantin' the grave dug, ma'am?" asked Pemberley's head gardener. "We'll do it straightaway."

"Next to old Mr. Wickham and his wife."

"Aye, a'course, ma'am. With family – that's nice fer her, an' ol' Wickham was a good man – much better'n 'is son," Sutton said, turning remarkably pink for a man of his size upon determining he had said more than he should.

"Yes, with family," said Elizabeth. "We will not dress in mourning, but we shall act as such otherwise, as much as we possibly can. We will hold the funeral after the coffin is ready. Any of the male servants who wish to attend – and any female servants who wish to spend that time in the chapel in prayer – may do so, with your duties for the day adjusted accordingly."

Elizabeth waited for additional questions, but there were none, and so she dismissed them all. They left quietly, with bows and curtseys all, until she was standing alone in the servants' hall, feeling small and alone.

She lingered there longer than she should have, so long she began to sense a certain restless stirring outside, and understood if she stayed longer, she would be disrupting the servants' dinner. So she trudged back up the stairs to Lydia's room, and found Mary and Catherine sitting vigil there. Catherine was working in her sketchbook; as Elizabeth drew closer, she saw it was a portrait of Lydia she was sketching

"I wanted something to remember her by, aside from her hair – and – and of course her child," said Catherine. "I will make copies for everyone."

"That was a very good idea, Catherine," said Elizabeth, taking a deep breath before adding, "Jasper is making her coffin. Everything is proceeding to bury her tomorrow."

They all nodded, and Mary rose and handed her a note. "Dr. Alderman was here. I made him write this out. He won't give us any difficulties – you were right that he doesn't want this spread abroad any more than we do."

The note was a very brief statement that it was Dr. Alderman's belief as coroner that Mrs. Lydia Wickham had died of childbed fever early in the morning of September 3. It was signed by him, however, and if Mary had overseen it, Elizabeth presumed it was sufficient for David to be comfortable in performing Lydia's funeral.

Elizabeth stayed in Lydia's room until late in the evening, only leaving the room to make an unenthusiastic endeavour at the dinner that had been laid out in the little sitting-room. Catherine finished her sketch, a very good likeness, particularly since she had been required to draw Lydia's eyes from memory. She had drawn her as Lydia in that first day of being a mother: tender, happy, loving, but still very young. Elizabeth was glad of it; this was how they should remember Lydia, she thought. Catherine left the room after this, returning with the baby, and they all sat silently save the child's gurgles and coos.

Jane came in and bade them all to leave. She would sit up with Lydia this one last night, and the rest of them should attempt to get some sleep, she said, looking very particularly at Elizabeth as she said so. Thus Elizabeth went down to her dressing-room and completed all of her nightly rituals with Sarah, her heart and her person both tremendously heavy. She laid Dr. Alderman's note down on the gilded commode within her bedchamber, beside the lock of Lydia's hair. Sarah had cut one for each of the women in Lydia's family, and the precision with which they had been clipped and tied off with little pieces of ribbon stood in sharp contrast to the unruliness of Lydia's curls during her lifetime.

Darcy would not get Elizabeth's express until early the next morning. What a shock it would be to him, and Elizabeth felt the pain of adding this shock to her prior treatment of him. She longed for his return and yet feared it, feared he would continue in that coldness towards her, would continue to make clear she was not welcome within his chambers. She crossed the room to get the key from its hiding-place, and opened the top drawer of the commode. It was filled with jeweller's boxes, but the one she sought was easily enough found and she opened it, revealing her favourite of the collection. It was the diamond festoon necklace he had bought for her some years ago; she removed it from the box, struggling but finally managing to clasp it behind her neck. It looked ridiculous, to be wearing it with her nightgown, but Elizabeth's focus was on the necklace. When he had given it to her, he had said it was to be a reminder of his unceasing love for her. No love could be unceasing, though, she thought – any love, even the deepest love, could be damaged, could even be broken with sufficient cause. She had thought their love strong, but had she broken it irreparably? Darcy's absence had now been so long she feared the answer was yes, and with renewed tears she removed the necklace and laid it down beside the hair and the note. She ought to have locked everything up, but without the sentiment behind them, the diamonds meant nothing to her, and with this thought Elizabeth extinguished the room's candles and went to bed.

She could not sleep, but she had expected this. As she did not wish to take more laudanum, she expected she would lie awake much of the night; even if she had not finished Lady Anne's journals, Elizabeth did not think she could read at such a time. So she laid there, listening to the country night and awaiting dawn, until the door to her dressing-room creaked open. She sat up in the bed, thinking it to be Browning and Charles, and was shocked to see Darcy instead, standing there in his travelling clothes, the light from the candle in his hand bouncing about the room.

Elizabeth gazed at him, worried, rueful, trembling, wondering how he would treat her, until he said, "Oh my darling," and crossed the room in long strides, depositing the candle on her nightstand and jumping up into the bed to pull her into an embrace.

"Oh my poor darling," he murmured, pulling her to his chest. "Parker told me all – I am so sorry I was not here."

"You were not here because I pushed you away," whimpered Elizabeth. "I asked you – "

"No – no – shhhh. There is much we should speak of, but let us wait. Tonight, just let me hold you. Just let me comfort you, my poor, dear Elizabeth, my poor love."

She did as he asked. Perhaps it was strange to leave so much unresolved between them, but Elizabeth was not certain she could have managed a coherent sentence even if he had wished to talk, and she was grateful for his gentle treatment of her fragile emotions. She clung to him, pressing herself tight against his chest as she cried: weeping for grief, weeping for remorse, but still more weeping for love, for unceasing, unbroken love.


	45. Part 2, Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Mrs. McClare had been looking after little Catherine during the night and feeding the child when she awakened; William slept in Georgiana's room and although he often slept through the night, he did not do so on this one. Georgiana awakened to his cries, which proved to be hunger, and she sat in the chair beside his cradle, suckling him.

Such times were always quiet and peaceful, and Georgiana was thinking about the dead young lady across the hall from her, thinking of how blessed she was to still be here to hold her child, to feed him, to love him, when the door to the hallway opened slowly. It proved to be Matthew, surprising her so thoroughly she emitted a delighted cry. He saw what she was about and came over to lay his hand on her shoulder and kiss her deeply.

"I had not hoped to see you for some days more," she said. "Everything is concluded in Portsmouth?"

"Yes – the Caroline is formally decommissioned. She is a naval ship no more," he said, his countenance taking on a cast that was sad, yet also fond. "I rode here with your – our brother. My father and I travelled to London on Monday and he heard that Fitzwilliam had been in town. We called on him and learned he was intending to travel to Pemberley within the hour, and I agreed to ride with him. We stayed only one night on the road – does he always travel in such a hellfire hurry?"

Georgiana shook her head. "I wrote to him. Elizabeth has been unwell and I suspected she had not told him of the extent of it, although truly everything else happening here should have been more than enough to recall him well before now. Did he tell you of what his business was in town? I have been having a hard time fathoming what could have kept him there at such a time."

"Yes, we spoke of it during the ride. There were several things, all related to this Mr. Sinclair who recently inherited Berewick. He is seeking to enclose the common, in Kympton – my father promised to see that quashed – but the more critical reason is that he has been beating his wife. Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth were both concerned for her safety, and he was seeking some means of resolution."

"Oh," was all Georgiana said. There were few things she might have considered worthy enough causes, but preventing a neighbour from beating his wife was to be considered one of them.

"What has been happening here?" asked Matthew. "Parker was in a very sombre mood when he showed me up to the room, but he would say nothing of why."

"Mrs. Wickham died yesterday, of childbed fever. The child is healthy – a girl, named Catherine. Mrs. Wickham left her to the care of the Ramseys."

He bowed his head. "I had feared it was something like that."

"Matthew, you must know I have committed us to a few things." Georgiana told him of all they had decided upon, particularly that Georgiana had offered to have them stay at Stanton Hall and have the baby christened at Bishop's Barrow.

"I am glad you have committed us to such things. Whenever they are ready, we may all sail down in the Georgiana. The only difficulty may be if their wet nurse is prone to seasickness – if she is anything like your poor maid Hughes, she would be in no fit shape to nurse the child."

"There will be no difficulty, for there is no wet nurse – I am providing the milk for the child."

To his look of mild shock, she explained further the arrangement with the pap boat and flannels, stressing that William was at no risk.

"I cannot say it was that which startled me," he said. "Are you sure it will have no impact on your own health?"

Georgiana shook her head. "I've found I need to eat even more, but I have no complaints over that. Cook here still recalls my favourites and she has been delighted I consume so much of them. Even if it did, though – I wanted to do this for her, Matthew. She suffered the fate I narrowly escaped. At least in this way I can help her child."

William had finished, and Matthew held out his hands to take the child. "How is Caroline?"

"Quite content to be in the nursery with all the other children. She and Marianne and Emma have formed a close little trio – Bess joins them sometimes, but I think she enjoys having children nearer her age to play with, even if they are all boys – and all of the children adore Dog. The nursery is a strange place these days; the only place in the house where there is still happiness. The Darcy children lost their nurse some months ago and I understand that event impacted the boys far more."

Matthew laid William down in his cradle, and now that they could finally embrace, he held her tightly.

"You kept your promise," she whispered.

"I did," he breathed deeply. "Georgiana – I vowed I would not keep such things from you, ever again. I had another nightmare, at the inn last night. I think it was being in a strange place without you. I had nothing to ground me, to remind me all was well, and you were safe."

"Oh, Matthew."

"Do not cry, dearest. I've realized that what happened on the Icarus will always be a part of me. I will never be entirely free of it. But it can be a smaller and smaller part, and it need not prevent me from having a happy life with my family."

* * *

Darcy's presence proved more effective than laudanum, and when Elizabeth awoke from a deep sleep, she found it took her some minutes to recall the recent sorrow of her life, so secure and content had she felt. He was awake already, and drew her closer. Her feet met with the soft leather of his boots – he had removed his cravat at some point during the night, but nothing else.

"We bury Lydia today," she said, almost at the moment she recalled it herself.

He nodded. "Parker told me – I will help bear her out. Let us talk after the burial, if you are feeling well enough for it."

Someone – likely Mr. Parker – must have spoken to him of her ill health, Elizabeth thought, and although it still felt strange to have things unresolved between them, she still felt the rightness of waiting until later, until after she had said good-bye to Lydia.

"Was there an agreed-upon time, for the burial?" he asked.

"No, not yet – I did not wish to pressure Jasper in the making of the coffin. I expect we shall settle upon a time this morning."

He nodded. "I would like to see the children before breakfast, then."

They dressed and went to the nursery, Browning carrying little Charles, who had already received his father's greetings in Mrs. Darcy's dressing-room. In all that had been happening in the house, Elizabeth had endeavoured to go to the nursery periodically, so as not to worry the children, but had generally felt they were content there with their play and even with their lessons. Miss Fischer had found them all growing eager to read, and indeed little George Darcy was already seated in the corner with _Histories, or tales of past times_ , laboriously sounding out each word of Blue Beard's story. Elizabeth halted at this sight, grasping for her husband's hand and squeezing it tight. She felt almost certain this was an echo of his own past, the little boy so studiously focused on his book – likely the very same volume – his dark hair hanging down over his brow. By Darcy's responding squeeze, she felt his agreement, and she was glad for such a pure, simple moment in what was certain to be a difficult day.

James noticed them first, crying out, "Papa's home!" and running over to where his father stood. He quickly gained the embrace he had desired, and George, roused by his brother's cry, ran over for his own turn. Through all of this George Nichols remained where he had been playing with James, watching awkwardly as the twins embraced their father. Darcy remained on his knees, however, and addressed him once George had moved on to embrace his mother.

"Good morning, George," Darcy addressed the Nichols boy. "I am glad to see you, too."

George Nichols drew closer, but seemed uninclined to seek an embrace, and finally Darcy held out his hand so the boy could shake it.

"Can we go for a long ride today, papa?" asked James. "Mama said we couldn't go out of the paddock while you was gone but now you're home."

"Not today, James. Today there will be a f – "

"Today your father has much to do, since he has been absent," said Elizabeth, glancing sharply at her husband. They had not told the children of Lydia's death – they had hardly known her and regardless of being their aunt, her dying could not impact them as Mrs. Nichols's death had. Moreover, to tell children of their age such a thing created a great possibility that they should repeat it to persons who should not hear of it.

Seeming to comprehend her, Darcy said, "Yes, James, I shall have much to do today, but we will go out tomorrow, if you like."

James nodded vigorously and the Georges both seemed pleased, as did Bess, who had come closer to hear of this intelligence. Then Darcy's gaze drifted towards the little trio of girls who had become particular friends during their time in the nursery, all of them still abed.

"Why is it that a bear has been allowed in the house, still less with the children?" asked Darcy.

"It is a dog," said Elizabeth, smiling faintly. "Georgiana purchased it for Caroline. She has also apparently purchased a ship, which I can hardly fathom."

"Matthew spoke of the yacht, but he did not mention the dog," Darcy said, in a tone that indicated the purchase of such a dog was of perhaps greater interest to him.

At this, the dog turned its head and stared at Darcy as though it understood the topic of discussion, a thread of drool escaping its mouth and glinting in the morning sunshine. Little Charles had noticed his parents's presence by now as well, and as the dog returned its attention to its companions, licking each of their giggling faces, he had crawled to within feet of his parents and was near enough to be scooped up by his father, emitting happy giggles of his own.

Elizabeth felt it was right, that they had not told the children, and yet it was strange to be here amidst such happiness and giggles, when her sister was dead under this same roof. Dead and with her own child still living, a child that would never grieve her loss, for how could a child grieve a mother she had never known? The younger Catherine Ramsey would grow up happy, the same as these children, and Elizabeth felt this was right, too: there would be enough coming, to pain her in adulthood – Elizabeth could not know what it was now, but she knew these things were coming, as they had come for Elizabeth herself. Little Catherine should have every happiness she could in her youth.

* * *

It could not be told, how late Jasper and those enlisted to help him with the coffin had been up making it, but it was already laid out alongside Lydia on the bed, when Elizabeth first entered the room that morning. The bedchamber had been filled with flowers at her request – Lydia would not be here long enough for the smell to become a concern, but Elizabeth thought her sister would have wanted everything as pretty as it could be. Roses were the predominant scent, as Elizabeth glanced over the coffin. It was covered with a layer of black baize, decorated very precisely with brass nailheads, and Elizabeth determined Jasper should be given a substantial bonus for his overnight craftsmanship.

They had agreed at breakfast that they should proceed with the funeral once all who wished to had said their good-byes, and Elizabeth realised with a sharp pang in her breast that she should make her own now. She had entered under the auspices of ensuring all was ready, but Jane had slipped out and left her alone with Lydia. While she did not feel ready to say her good-bye, some part of her understood she would never be ready.

Elizabeth stepped closer to the bed. It was strange, to see Lydia so silent and still, so lacking in the animal spirits that had comprised her personality. Those spirits had been gone when she had arrived at Pemberley – it was impossible to be thus when heavy with child – but still some of the younger Lydia had remained, the inappropriateness, the innocence despite what she had suffered. Sniffling, Elizabeth laid her hand on her sister's arm and said,

"Lydia, I think – I think we failed you. I know maybe this was how your womb was and maybe this was always meant to be, but I wish it hadn't come about as it did. I wish you had known a better husband, a happier married life. I wish you'd lived closer to us, so we could have given you the love and support you deserved. I wish I had done more to help you, both after you married, and before. I wish papa – "

Elizabeth choked on a sob and did not continue with that particular thought. Perhaps that sentiment should be part of her father's good-bye, but it did not belong in hers.

"I wish you could have lived and been a mother to your little girl. You were so brave and you fought so hard for her. I'm glad she's here in England, with her family. We'll look after her – not just Catherine and Andrew, but all of us. She'll never want for anything, I promise, and by giving her the life you should have had, maybe in some way we can make it up to you."

Elizabeth leaned over to kiss her youngest sister's firm, cold cheek and then left the room, weeping profusely. How glad she was for the presence of Darcy, who enveloped her in an embrace there in the hallway as Mary went in to say her own good-bye.

* * *

Quietly, Georgiana stood in the doorway of her bedchamber and watched them all go in: Elizabeth; then Mary, who emerged with a stoic face; then Catherine, who came out with her hands pressed to her eyes, choking on her own sobs; then the maid, Fanny, still deeply sad at the death of her mistress but not so hysterical as she might have been if she had not agreed to employment as Catherine Ramsey's abigail and sometime nurse; and then Mr. Bennet, who entered looking pale and grave and came out with his eyes red and the tracks of his tears apparent on his cheeks. At this time, Jane indicated she had already said her good-bye, and as there seemed to be a sort of wordless consent among them that Mrs. Bennet should go last and be allowed all the time she needed with her child, Georgiana spoke: "I – I would like to see her, if you do not mind."

Mrs. Bennet smiled faintly, her face trembling in her grief. "Of course not, my dear. I am glad you considered Lydia so much a sister that you would wish to."

So Georgiana walked into Lydia's bedchamber, the scent of the roses almost overwhelming her for a moment, a sudden, unexpected reminder of her mother. She stood at the foot of the bed – to go any closer seemed inappropriate. Perhaps it was inappropriate for her to be here at all, but still here she was, and she would speak.

"Maybe you're wondering why I am here, or maybe wherever you are now, you know I nearly did the same thing you did, but in my escape I had opportunity for a much better – a much happier life. You and I hardly knew each other, and I am not sure that I would have known you better if you _had_ lived. But I just wanted to promise you that I will do whatever I can to help protect your child, to help make her happy. Catherine asked me to be one of her godmothers, but I would have done so regardless. He will never find her – he will never be an influence on her life. We will protect her, all of us."

Georgiana stared at her unanswering companion for some moments, bowed her head and then left the room. Mrs. Bennet took a deep breath, and in the awful pain of her countenance, every mother in the hallway understood the grief of this moment, understood the tragic culmination of three and twenty years of hope and love. It was more than half-an-hour, before Mrs. Bennet silently emerged. She could not be called a stout woman, but a combination of years and daughters had done their work on her figure, and it was strange to see her look weak and frail, to need Mr. Bennet to put his arm about her waist and say "come now, Fanny, let's sit down," and lead her off to the sitting-room.

They went in, then, after that, all of the remaining women in the hallway, and they wrapped Lydia in her shroud. It was pure white linen, left from what had been used for Mrs. Nichols. Although it had been made quickly, it was clearly the work of the Kelly sisters, with impeccable stich-work and precise lacing of the black ribbons they tied about Lydia's wrists and throat. They picked her up and laid her down in the coffin, then left her to the responsibility of the men. Jasper lead that group in, to place the coffin lid, and then the gentlemen bore her out: Mr. Bennet, retrieved from the sitting-room; Charles Bingley; Andrew Ramsey; David Stanton; Fitzwilliam; Matthew.

The women followed after them because they knew not what else to do, down the narrower steps that led to the first floor, and then the grander steps to the entrance-hall. Their steps echoed on the stone as they carried her through that space and then out the front door, to the waiting waggonette. The footmen and grooms moved to cover it with black cloth – a sort of informal pall – and lacking black horses to pull it, the stables had draped the hindquarters of the four bays with still more black cloth and planted black feathers in their bridles. It was not nearly as grand as it would have been if an undertaker had planned it, nor were there hired mourners, but there was love in it, Georgiana thought – more love than a great many people whose burials _were_ arranged by undertakers were shown.

The ladies all stopped under the portico, watching. There was no driver: Marshall himself had hold of one of the leaders, and Powell and John were both mounted postillion, black armbands tied neatly on each of their coats. On Fitzwilliam's command, Marshall stepped forward and the leaders followed him, the waggonette jolting into motion a few seconds later. The men who had borne her out now held her pall, all of the male servants following after. Georgiana watched them go, and it was on her mind to say there was no reason why the women could not follow, that she had _listened_ to funerals before and they were not so distressing. Yet she realised it was too late; it was not time to question tradition. She caught Elizabeth's countenance and thought her sister might have been thinking the same. Rather than following, though, the women quietly turned around and went back inside the house.

* * *

Elizabeth had cried in and amongst her sisters and the other women – the Kelly sisters and Fanny – as they had watched Lydia go off on her last journey, slowly advancing up the hill that crested before Pemberley Woods. All of her sisters were bearing their grief in their own ways, in their own mostly expected ways, except for Jane, whom she noticed quietly slipping out the back of the entrance-hall. She followed hesitantly, but still she followed, across the courtyard and up the stairs there, where her sister re-entered the house and then went into the chapel.

She waited, hesitant at disturbing her sister's time in such a space, and yet feeling there had been something unsettled in Jane's countenance that would render the presence of her younger sister more beneficial than not. When finally she entered the chapel, Jane was seated silently in one of the pews towards the front, although this time she heard her sister's entrance and turned back towards Elizabeth, her face grave and damp.

"I have been thinking," said Jane, "about Lydia, and poor Princess Charlotte and your cousin Alice. When I think about them, I cannot help but think of Amelia's birth. They all suffered and ultimately died, and somehow I was the one who lived. Her birth was so hard for me, Lizzy, but it feels selfish to still look back on it thus, when out of all of them, I have been spared."

"Oh, Jane," whispered Elizabeth, approaching her sister and enveloping her in an embrace. "You lived, and I am even more grateful than I was before that you did so, but I wish you would not feel guilt over it. We may not speak of it often, but when any one of us goes to give birth, we are risking our health, and our equanimity, and our lives. We hope for the best; we bring in those we think will be best to attend us, but ultimately it was not even enough to save the woman who was meant to be our queen. Even as I mourn poor Lydia, I am ever grateful to have my Jane with me, and still more, I do not blame her for thinking back on that event with distress."

Jane bowed her head. "Emma has such a lovely disposition; sometimes I wonder how a child of her personality could have come out of such a birth."

"She was who she was before she was born, I think," said Elizabeth. "She is her mother's daughter."

Elizabeth and Jane sat quietly in the chapel for the better part of an hour; they were joined there by Mary, who had come in to pray and remained with the sombre party, as well as the Kelly sisters and several other of the female servants. They learned the men had returned when Mrs. Reynolds came in and told them thus, quietly informing Elizabeth that Mr. Darcy had gone to his study. Elizabeth left her sisters and went thither, finding herself once again enveloped in an embrace.

"It was very peaceful – the burial," said he. "David spoke very well. I asked if he would write out a copy of his remarks. I think you would like to read them."

"I would, thank you," Elizabeth whispered. Part of her wished she could just remain in his arms, deriving comfort for the remainder of the day, but she had reached the point where the ache of having things unresolved was too strong. "I am ready to talk, if you are."

He drew back and gazed into her eyes. "Are you certain, Elizabeth? This has already been such a difficult day for you."

"We need to talk," she stated, taking his hand and leading him over to the chairs before the fireplace. "At the very least, I need to apologise for overstepping."

"No, no, I shall not have that. You said nothing that was not deserved; nothing that was not correct. If anyone should apologise it is I, for reacting as I did and then leaving so precipitously."

"I do wish you would have stayed, so we might have talked when my temper was cooler."

"I wish I would have as well, but at the time, the thought of once again viewing your disappointment in me was unbearable."

How painfully his words cut through her – how painful was the expression on his countenance – how painful was her own realisation that her power over him was far stronger than she had understood, if the mere thought of her disappointment could do this to him.

He continued: "I vowed I would not see it again – I would go to town and I would not return until I had found a resolution. I had no notion of the effects of my absence, of all that had been occurring here. Why did you not write to me?"

"I – I had written to you, and you did not respond."

He laid his head in his hand. "That letter – how that letter pained me. It made very clear that you had given up on me."

"No!" cried Elizabeth. "No, that was not my intent. I understood only after you left how difficult it must be for you, to do what I asked of you."

"Do you not understand, Elizabeth? In my life it has been you, who has pushed me to become a better man, who has made me a man worthy of your love. You challenged me again and I was ashamed that I shied from that challenge – yes, because it was the most difficult thing you could ask me to do, but it does not follow that you should not have asked it. To read you were giving up on me, you were absolving me of doing something that was difficult but also right and necessary – it was unbearable," Darcy said. "It is still more unbearable to think of what you were suffering here without me, while I hid away in my shame."

Elizabeth's eyes had been filling with tears as he spoke, and they spilled over. "I did write to you of what was happening here, but I did not send the letter. I met with Richardson in the hallway and understood you had written to him, but not to me. I so was afraid I had damaged your love for me irreparably – I did not want you to return out of mere duty."

He gazed at her with glistening eyes. "Oh my darling, I did not think that you could be as insecure in my love for you as I am in yours for me. The necklace – I saw you had taken it out – I should not have put you in a situation where you needed a reminder of my love. I should have understood the pain my absence would cause. But Elizabeth, you must understand, when you advise me, when you push me to become a better man – it only makes me love you more. I did not react well, but all my anger was towards myself, not you. As for you, I want you to understand something: there is _nothing_ you could ever do that would make me stop loving you." He reached for her hand and drew it to his breast. "You could take a knife and put it through my heart, right here, and my last words would be, 'Why, my love?' but it would still be _my love_. It will always be my love. Always."

At this, her tears deepened into long, heaving sobs, and he pulled her the rest of the way from her own chair, onto his lap, holding her there as she cried, unsure of how she could still have so many tears left after the past few days. She cried yet again for Lydia's death, cried for her own fears, cried because at least he would be beside her as she had to face those fears, had to face what had happened to her health. Cried because they had yet to speak of her health, but they would need to. Cried because he still loved her, because he always would, however long they had left together.

After she had recovered a little, she whispered. "I do not want you to be insecure, either. I know you have loved longest, you have known the pain of a time when your love was unrequited, but I promise you now that we are perfectly balanced – our love is strong, so fiercely strong, on both sides. We must remember this; we must know that even if we misunderstand each other, even if we argue, our love can never be broken. Never."

He kissed her at this statement, kissed her so deeply she felt on the verge of swooning. It had been so long since they had last kissed, and yet even considering that, this seemed something new, unprecedented, more powerful than she had ever known. It was the physical affirmation of her promise of unbreakable love, and it was beautiful.

They sat quietly together for a time, once the kiss had drawn to its breathless end, until finally he said, "I did find a solution for Mrs. Sinclair's troubles – or, at the least, a strong position from which to negotiate with her husband."

"I presumed you had, since you have returned," murmured Elizabeth.

"Oh no, I returned as soon as I read Georgiana's letter."

"Georgiana's letter?"

"Yes – you were very right about her temper. She apologised briefly for bringing such a disruption upon my house, and then roundly chastised me for being away from home at such a time. And she wrote of how dealing with the events of the past week had worn on your health, which I see is true, and it worries me. You are much too thin, Elizabeth, and you look exhausted."

"I have little appetite when I am worried, and I have not been sleeping well," Elizabeth said. She did not wish to speak further on _why_ these things had been her state for so many days; the wound was still fresh and she saw no reason to reopen it. Nor was she ready to discuss her deeper fears. "What is your solution, regarding the Sinclairs?"

He must have recognised her reticence even if he did not know the reasons for it, and he encouraged her to rise so they could walk over to the map of the estate.

"I spoke with some acquaintances at White's when I arrived in town, men I thought might have some ideas of how to manage the situation, of how I might acquire some leverage over Sinclair. We discussed the possibility of my purchasing enough of his debts to hold the threat of debtor's prison over him, but then Lord Lyttonville asked if I hold rights as lord of the manor in my parish, which I do. You see, all the lands in the neighbourhood, including those of Pemberley, used to belong to the Barons de Kympton."

"I am aware – your mother wrote of the history in her journal."

"Ah, so then you know rights of the lord of the manor were eventually granted to my family?" When Elizabeth nodded, he continued, "Lord Lyttonville suggested there might be some ancient right I had heretofore not taken advantage of – rights of passage on common or waste land, perhaps, or regarding hunting – and threatening the use of them might prove effective."

"And those were the estate records you requested?"

"Not exactly. What he said about rights of passage made me realise just what my acquisition of Barrowmere's lands had done." He pointed to the map, to Berewick Hall, and then drew his finger along the lane leading from the estate. It met with the turnpike at Kympton village, and continued on the path of an old drover's road for some distance beyond. "When the old de Kympton lands were divided, Berewick was essentially land-locked by the other estates. Hanson Edge is behind it to the west, Castle Hill to the east, and Barrowmere and Pemberley lands to the north and south. Pemberley and Berewick have historically been on good relations, and so the land that forms the lane to Berewick has been leased to the family for the token sum of one shilling, with the lease renewed every three generations. I presume it was understood that if for some reason those two families ceased to be cordial, Berewick might adopt a similar arrangement with Barrowmere. Now, however, Pemberley controls all of the lands. The estate records I requested were those related to the lease: it expired with the prior Mr. Sinclair's death."

Elizabeth gasped. "You hold the power to trap Sinclair on his own estate."

"Yes, my clever wife – or off of it, if I so choose. He cannot legally trespass on Pemberley lands if I post signs to such effect, although I will need to secure the support of another magistrate to enforce this."

"My God."

"I think the threat of being kept from his estate will be sufficient to convince him to agree to a formal separation. He will not agree to it easily, I am sure, and if need be, I will use this to physically separate them."

Elizabeth kissed him, delicately this time. "When you were gone, I realised how very much we have all come to rely upon you to lead our family, to solve every problem put to you. And once again, you have done it."

"I want to do more than just this, though. You were right to say that I should be a leader within this neighbourhood. I intend to do so – I may not hold the position of magistrate, but I will use what power and influence I have," said he, clasping her hand. "I have better confidence in being able to do so with you by my side, Elizabeth.

Tearily, she returned his grip on her hand. "There's something I want you to understand, though – something I want you to know now, in case it happens. Someday, there may be a problem even _you_ cannot solve. I will not be disappointed in you, if that happens – I will not love you any less. It must wear on you severely, to do this, and I did not understand that well enough, when we quarrelled."

"Thank you for that, my darling. It does wear on me, but I do not want to be the sort of man who is prevented from doing what is right by mere weariness," said he. They stood in silence for some moments, but then he added, "There is something else I wish to tell you of, something else I did while I was in town. As I was awaiting the estate records, I determined I ought to update my will, for if I passed before James's majority, the estate was to be held in trust, and old Sinclair was one of the trustees. I had intended to replace him with Matthew, but it concerned me that Houlton was now the only man within the immediate neighbourhood to help form the trust. I thought about how vexatious it would be for you, if some situation arose that required immediate attention – something like what happened to poor Jemmy – if you must await consensus from a far-flung group of men. That was when I realised it was foolish to have a group of trustees at Pemberley's helm when I have _you_. There is no one I trust more to do right by this estate and all of its dependants."

He picked up several pieces of paper from the top of the desk and handed them to Elizabeth, pointing to where she should read, which was that in the event of his death before the majority of the _youngest_ child of his body, the estate of Pemberley and all of his other holdings would pass to the control of Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy, formerly Bennet. On or before the majority of that youngest child, Mrs. Darcy was to determine which child was to inherit the estate and the majority of the other holdings, with preference given to the eldest living son of Darcy's body. At that time, all other sons would receive ten thousand pounds, all daughters twenty, George Nichols was to be left three thousand pounds, and Mrs. Darcy was to be given control of Fitzwilliam House and a jointure of fifteen hundred pounds per annum.

"Darcy, I am honoured, but I fear this is highly irregular," Elizabeth said, stunned that not only had he given her control of Pemberley, but also that he would leave the choice of his ultimate heir in her hands. "To give me the power to choose which child should inherit – "

"It is unique, I think, not irregular – and as my wife is unique, I think it completely appropriate. As to choosing my heir, we have always been agreed that it shall be James unless he proves to be unsuitable. I trust you to respect my wishes and make the right choice, should it prove necessary. I would not wish you to be trapped into handing the estate over to someone like Laurence Sinclair."

"True, but God send none of our children should turn out like him."

Darcy nodded, and Elizabeth read on: "In the event of Mrs. Darcy's predeceasing Mr. Darcy, the estate shall pass into control of a trust formed of: The Right Honourable Andrew Fitzwilliam and The Honourable Edward Fitzwilliam, of Stradbroke Castle in Norfolk; Captain Sir Matthew Stanton, of Stanton Hall in Hampshire; Mr. Charles Bingley, esq., of Clareborne Manor in Derbyshire; and Mr. John Houlton, esq. of Brasswell Park in Derbyshire."

_In the event of Mrs. Darcy's predeceasing Mr. Darcy_ – the very possible event, was Elizabeth's painful thought. It caused her to burst back into tears, and with her hands shaking she gave the will back over to him, so she would not damage it. He dropped it upon the desk and drew her back into his arms, and between sobs she struggled to convey her fears regarding her health, that she might not be long in following Mrs. Nichols.

His countenance was stunned, then grieved and concerned. "What has Dr. Alderman said?"

"I have not spoken to him of it."

"We must have him see you tomorrow, then."

"No!" she exclaimed, her vehemence shocking him. "No – I have heard the screams of three women at his hands. I will not be the fourth."

"I understand, and I will respect your wishes in this, but you must be seen by someone. I would suggest this Hayes the Bingleys have been using, but I think it should be someone you know and trust. What if I have Dr. McMullen come up from town? And Dr. Whittling as well – I expect two opinions are better than one."

"Dr. McMullen certainly, but Dr. Whittling is an accoucheur, and I cannot be pregnant. My courses still have not returned, since I've nursed Charles for so long."

"True, but Dr. Whittling is still a physician, and he has seen you more than anyone, has he not?"

"Anyone except Mr. Jones, from my old neighbourhood."

"Would you wish him to come, too?"

"No, thank you," Elizabeth whispered, smiling faintly but fondly at him, at the thought that he was willing to summon Meryton's apothecary to Derbyshire if this brought his wife comfort.

"Dr. Whittling and Dr. McMullen, then," he said. "I will send a carriage down for them, but first let me take you upstairs to rest. Until we know more, you should rest as much as you can – give over whatever burdens you possibly can to me. I was not here when I should have been, so please let me help you now."

They were silent as they went up the stairs until she quietly asked him if she might rest in his bed rather than her own. It could not be told whether it was his presence that prompted it, but she had always slept better there.

"Of course, whatever you wish. That bed in your chambers is the very opposite of comfort – I will be glad when you replace it."

"I fear that is going to take longer. I do not want to disturb the secret of your mother's closet, so I must decide what to do with the panelling."

"Hmm. Perhaps you may need an architect, then, to propose how the bedchamber can be updated while maintaining the secrecy of the closet."

There would be little use in bringing in an architect to update the room if the mistress would not long survive his work, Elizabeth thought, and she caught the sudden comprehension of this in his countenance. He clasped her hand and said no more of plans for the future.

There could never be anything said to be lacking in Sarah Kelly's work, but oh what a difference it was to be changed for bed by her husband, to be caressed and soothed so very gently. Such ministrations were sufficient to lull her into drowsiness even before he had left the room, and Elizabeth slept deeply until she was roused gently by Darcy, who murmured that Charles had need of her. He took his son from Sawyer, dismissing the nurse and then giving Charles over to Elizabeth. Charles coughed several times as she got him settled, but then suckled quietly.

Darcy watched them with a dubious countenance, and Elizabeth knew even before he said it that he was going to ask whether she should still be suckling the child, given her concerns. To this her response was what she had told herself, that the damage was already done if Mrs. Nichols had sickened them both, and that unlike hers, his health seemed never to change. To this she added a summary of all they had tried to get the boy to eat – every fruit, vegetable, and grain on the estate, as well as most types of meat, finely pureed.

"And what of milk? Perhaps he is not ready to move beyond it, but must he have his mother's milk?

"We have tried goat's milk, sheep's milk, and cow's milk," stated Elizabeth flatly.

"Not asses' milk?"

"Darcy."

"I ask seriously. It is supposed to be the best for invalids."

"Do you intend to acquire a milch donkey just so Charles can refuse its milk as well?"

"Yes. I will set Richardson on finding one first thing tomorrow," Darcy said. "Perhaps this will be the panacea. If it is not, we may need to let him get well and truly hungry – hungry enough to give more consideration to everything he has refused thus far."

Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears. What he proposed was perhaps the right course for a boy of Charles's age, but the thought of it was too painful to bear. Darcy sensed her upset and touched her cheek, then the top of his son's head, murmuring that they would try the asses' milk first. Charles finished and was carried off by his father, who returned bearing a tray.

"I had them set out food in the little sitting room for those who wished to eat together," said he. "I think most have taken trays in their rooms, though. Cook has made you a nice restorative soup, and we have a watercress sallad and cold beef."

It was precisely the meal she would have requested for herself, if she had no other persons to consider, and Elizabeth was struck with the thought – not for the first time – that for someone who had always possessed sufficient servants to wait upon his every whim, Fitzwilliam Darcy made a remarkably good nurse.


	46. Part 2, Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone...I need to slow down the pace of posting for a little bit, so for the next few weeks I'm likely to only do one post per weekend. I think there are five more batches of chapters left to go, so we're nowhere near the end yet, and I probably should have approached the posting as more of a marathon than a sprint. :-)

**Chapter 11**

Georgiana hoped Matthew had been correct, that sleeping alone in a strange place had caused his nightmares to return. Certainly, he had slept soundly the past two nights with his wife, save when William's needs awakened them. The child had slept through the previous night, though, awakening with voracious cries and a hunger at his mother's breast to match. Georgiana had no concerns over this; she had yet to experience any difficulties in feeding both of the babies. However when Mrs. McClare said they had made up a great quantity of food for little Charles in the nursery and there was certain to be some left if she'd like to try William on it, Georgiana decided to do so. She covered her breast when he took a break from his suckling, much to his dismay. He did not cry, however, and when placed in front of what could only be a bounteous feast for a baby of his age, he showed interest in nearly everything but finally decided smashed blueberries were his favourite. He ate the entire bowl, causing some consternation from Elizabeth's nurse and under-nurse, who were both spattered with samplings from all of the bowls.

Georgiana told Mrs. McClare they might as well begin keeping him in the nursery again, at least during the day – little Catherine had been moved from Georgiana's dressing-room to Catherine's, and keeping William in the same room as the other children would be much easier on the nurses. Waiting patiently through this statement were Caroline and Dog, one standing and one sitting before where Georgiana stood, but when Georgiana had finished speaking, Caroline said,

"Mama, Jamez sez they're going on a wong pony ride today and I'm big enough for a pony ride and I want to go can I go?" And then, recalling she had not included that most important word her mother had taught her: "Pwease!"

Georgiana knelt down before her daughter. "I think you are big enough to go for a pony ride outside the paddock as long as you ride beside me on a lead line, but I fear there are not enough ponies, my sweetling. All of the boys have their own ponies that they ride." In truth, Georgiana was not certain Acorn was considered specifically George Nichols's pony, but if the boys were to go on this ride, she did not like the idea of asking after its availability. George Nichols was the Darcys's ward now and would grow up within the nursery; to have her daughter take precedence over him would breed resentment they could not want.

"Oh, ma'am – I mean my lady – there's a pony fer her," said Mrs. Padgett. "Mr. Bingley had Clover sent down from Clareborne. Bought her for Emma but she hasn't shown any interest yet – he thought your daughter might like to ride her, and maybe that'd raise some interest on Emma's part."

"That was very kind of him," Georgiana said. Charles had mentioned none of this yesterday, but then ponies had hardly been a topic they could have discussed on such a day. "Well then Caroline, so long as Clover proves gentle enough for you, we may go on this ride."

To this, Caroline's reaction was to squeal with delight and cavort back over to her friends, Dog at her heels. Georgiana watched her, smiling faintly, reminded yet again of what she had said to Matthew, that the nursery was the only happy room within the house.

She went back to her dressing-room to change and found not only Moll waiting there, but also a thin slip of a girl of obvious familial resemblance. "Milady," Moll said, in response to Georgiana's questioning look. "This is my sister Brigid, that I said'd be able to take over from me, once Taylor and I are a'runnin' the inn. She'll be staying at Pemberley for some months longer to learn more from Sarah, but I thought while you was here it'd be good for you to meet her, and for her to help with servin' you so you can see if you like her."

Georgiana had been wilfully ignoring the fact that Moll was to leave her service within a span of months, and the presence of this plainly nervous young girl was a much stronger and sooner reminder than she would have liked. Still, it was a good idea on Moll's part, so she said, "I am pleased to meet you, Brigid."

"Step up, Brigid – she don't bite," commanded Moll.

The girl took two steps forward and curtseyed so deeply she wobbled; for a moment Georgiana feared she was going to topple over. Strangely, this endeared Brigid to her, even as it had become readily apparent to Georgiana that if Brigid was a success, her next lady's maid was going to be far less brash and talkative than her current one.

"PleasedtomeetyoumiladyIhopetoserveyouwell," whispered Brigid, thoroughly reinforcing Georgiana's observation.

Perhaps it would be nice to have a more staid abigail, she thought, but she also felt certain she would miss the entertainment of Moll's willingness to say anything that came into her head almost immediately after it had come into her head. It was not as though she would never see Moll again, though; now Georgiana would be her landlady, and they would work together to ensure the inn turned its fortunes around and therefore brought more prosperity to Bishop's Barrow.

Brigid did most of the work in changing Georgiana into a dress for breakfast, under Moll's watchful eye, but Moll still did her hair, keeping up a running commentary of how Brigid had been practicing dressing their mother, who thought it a great lark, and how the hair was the toughest thing to learn but under Sarah's tutelage she'd soon enough know all the very latest styles. Georgiana left them with the direction to have a riding habit ready for her after breakfast, and met with Matthew in their bedchamber to go thither.

"Georgiana, before we go down – I understand David and Mary intend to go back to Wincham later today. I wanted to ensure you knew what had brought them here."

"I know – Mary told me what happened."

He sighed. "David wrote to my – my real father. The letter was waiting for him when we arrived in town. That he could strike a little girl of that age, in such a manner, a child that was not his own – "

"He should not be striking any children of that age, whether they are his or not," stated Georgiana, realising too late that her words had a meaning beyond what she had intended.

Matthew said nothing of it, however. "My father is endeavouring to find him a new church, and will provide him some little support financially, if it is required. Mr. Stanton does have some savings, though – he is not at risk of becoming destitute."

Georgiana gave him a look that indicated she did not much care if that man _did_ become destitute, that after all the pain he had caused within his family, he should not expect any of them to save him from a situation of his own making. Matthew understood her completely, for he merely said, "I know, dearest," and opened the door to the hallway.

They returned soon enough, having settled upon mounts for the adults, for the children's ride. Georgiana had been the first recipient of her brother's generous offer that the grooms should test Gannet with a sidesaddle, and if he was amenable to it, that she should ride the young stallion. Georgiana had reminded him that she was responsible for the sustenance of two children and would rather not be risky about her endeavours. She inquired as to whether Spartan was still housed within Pemberley's stables, and offered use of either the cob or Elizabeth's mare, Flora, for Elizabeth did not feel herself well enough for a ride. Her choice was the mount she knew and still had a great deal of affection for. A sharp glance to her brother prevented the stallion's being offered to Matthew, for his wife knew very well that her husband belonged on a staid filly, mare, or gelding, and she was glad when Fitzwilliam understood her and offered up one of his hunters, a calm gelding. In addition to Clover, Charles had ordered a fine hunter of his sent down from Clareborne, and thus Fitzwilliam rode the stallion he had first offered to Georgiana, and although he claimed the horse was far calmer than his sister, still Georgiana saw he was a fine animal.

Had she been a few years younger, had she not such responsibilities, she thought she would have gladly tried the horse, and felt the honour of Fitzwilliam's compliment to her skills. Indeed, if it had been just the two of them on such a ride, he might have been mounted upon this filly he raved about, and they might have torn down the lane towards Kympton. But she _was_ a mother, and instead she was mounted on a cob she held every fondness for, leading an exceedingly happy Caroline along on the diminutive Clover, who had indeed proven sufficiently well-behaved. If Dog has not yet been mentioned as forming part of this riding-party, it must be assumed that Dog was alwaysbeside her little mistress when Dog felt she needed protection, so that Georgiana's portion of the ride was formed of a three-wide group of cob, pony, and dog, the latter two of similar height, and that if Caroline had begun to come off of the pony, the canine was in a better place to rescue the child than her mother. Caroline was secure, however, so secure that Matthew deemed he was more useful in somewhat effectively endeavouring to help Charles extricate Bess from the various fracas she and her pony were causing. Fitzwilliam rode up and down the line and could be heard to discipline his eldest son the most, commenting with dismay upon James's sudden lack of horsemanship. Fortunately, James comprehended his father's criticisms and seemed somewhat abashed for the remainder of the ride, keeping to the pace of the rest of the party and never once asking if they might canter.

Caroline and Clover had been kept to a walk for the extent of the ride, but Georgiana's stating that the ride would be very tiring for Dog if they went any faster had made a firm impression on the child, and anytime the rest of the party decided they should move at a faster pace, Caroline announced to all and sundry that it would make Dog tired and she would not do it.

As they reached the wider lane back to the stables, Fitzwilliam drew up beside them and asked Caroline if she had enjoyed her first long ride.

"Yes, Uncaw Fitz!" exclaimed Caroline.

"Uncle Fitzwilliam," corrected Georgiana, with a mildly amused look towards her brother.

"Yes, Uncaw Fitz. Wiww. Yim."

The object of the child's endeavours at nomenclature chuckled, to hear this. "I am glad Charles had Clover sent down. I did put word out for a pony that would be suitable for Caroline while I was in town, but no prospects emerged."

"I would not have thought you would have had time to be looking for ponies, with all that was happening here," Georgiana said, turning to glare at him.

It was plain by his countenance that this glare startled him, and he said, "Georgiana, I – I promise I did not spend my time in town in frivolous pursuits."

"Yes, Matthew told me you were endeavouring to stop the new Mr. Sinclair's abuse of his wife."

"Indeed, but you must understand it was not possible to spend every waking minute of my time there involved in just that one thing. I – " he shook his head " – I should not endeavour to explain myself further. I had been intending to thank you for your letter. The truth of the matter is that Elizabeth and I, we – we hit a difficult spot, and I thought if I went off and fixed the problem that had prompted it, all would be solved. But the truth is my absence created far worse problems: I was not aware of all that was happening here, still less of poor Elizabeth's health."

"I had thought it might be something of the like, but not – not so severe as you make it out to be," Georgiana said. "I will offer you the same thing you did me, that you need not share more if it discomfits you, and yet I am here for you, in whatever you might need."

"Nothing at present, dear sister. You have already done much, and I am grateful. Not just for Elizabeth and I, but in feeding little Catherine as well."

"That was nothing. I am glad to help."

"If I were to query a thousand other ladies of your birth, I daresay I would struggle to find another who would be _glad to help_ in such a situation."

"I have my own reasons for helping, and I think you must understand them if you think upon the child's situation, her mother's situation."

"Yes, of course."

"Did Matthew tell you, of what happened with Wickham?"

"He did. It was tremendously brave of you, Georgiana."

"I cannot say I felt brave, at the time. My thoughts were all of protecting them – my children, and Lydia."

"Still, it was brave," said he. "I was surprised to learn you are so adept at shooting pistols. I think – I think I would have judged Matthew differently, had I learned of it before our quarrel, than I do for learning of it now. I am glad you had such a skill, when you needed it."

Georgiana nodded. They were nearing the stables, now, and Georgiana could see that the two most magnificent pieces of horseflesh within had been turned out in adjacent paddocks. Kestrel she knew well, a bit thicker in the girth now that his primary exercises were whatever running he wished to do within the paddock and his amorous attentions to the mares brought to him in the breeding season. Still, he was feeling his oats on that day and running with speed and spirit in great circles across the paddock. The creature that was plainly his vaunted daughter stood still, upon the groom's releasing her halter, stood with her nostrils flaring, and her big bold eyes assessing all. The look of eagles, papa had called it, the look of the very greatest horses. Fitzwilliam had been right, to call her Peregrine.

Her assessment done, the filly loped up to the fence adjoining her father's paddock, sniffing at him for a few seconds before she wheeled around, bucked twice, and tore off towards the far end of her paddock, at a pace that was visibly faster than that of her father.

"Oh Fitzwilliam, she is magnificent," whispered Georgiana. "I am sure she and Kestrel will be the foundation of the dynasty you and papa always dreamed of."

"I cannot bring myself to care about that dynasty in the way I used to, Georgiana," said her brother. "The most important horse in my stables is Elizabeth's mare. If she does not regain her rider, I shall not have the spirit to care about any horse at all."

* * *

Even though she had slept well, Elizabeth still felt herself too grieved, too fatigued, to go out as part of the riding-party. She did not begrudge any of them: the twins had been clamouring to go out with their father, and she understood the appeal of being out of doors at such a time. She did go out herself, just for a little walk in the rose garden, and she was returning from that space when Parker informed her a note had arrived from Berewick. He gave it over to her, and it was as she had expected: Abigail Sinclair was feeling better and invited Mrs. Darcy to call upon her whenever she was available to do so. Elizabeth had determined her neighbourhood calls could not be neglected for much longer – she owed the older Mrs. Sinclair a call, and Mrs. Houlton had called and been turned away, the excuse being Elizabeth's own health. She determined she ought to make her calls while it was still a visible excuse, for either she would get better and no longer look so fatigued, or worse and no longer be able to call upon them at all.

Thus she ordered the landau and went first to Brasswell Park, where she learned the effect of four relatively simple words: "I have been unwell." These, combined with an apology for not receiving Mrs. Houlton when she had called, were more than sufficient to turn that lady's attention away from any sisters that might have been dying within Pemberley's walls at the time she had called, and towards sympathy for Mrs. Darcy. She hoped Mrs. Darcy was feeling better – she ought not to have called so soon, if she was still unwell – but Mrs. Houlton was gratified by the call, and sure Mrs. Darcy's health would improve – had she tried arrowroot? The reaction of Mrs. Sinclair and Clarissa was much the same, although more tender and without reference to any potential remedies.

She saved Abigail for last and made Henry come in with her, under the guise of being so unwell as to need his arm to climb the steps and enter the house. This had the unfortunate effect of prompting a great deal of guilt from Abigail in thinking Elizabeth had taken her letter as a summons.

"I did not," said Elizabeth. "I wanted to see how you were doing."

Abigail glanced nervously towards the door where their two footmen stood. "The thing that made me ill has not happened again," she murmured. "Laurence is away, watching the St. Leger."

"I am glad," murmured Elizabeth in return. "Mr. Darcy has found a solution – your husband's being away will be useful, I think."

Abigail's entire body trembled, in an effort to hold in her tears of relief, and Elizabeth wondered if she should have stated that it was a _possible_ solution. Legally, they held a great deal of leverage over Sinclair, but there was no telling how such a hot-headed man would react.

"You have gotten on well with my sister, Mrs. Bingley, I think?" Elizabeth asked.

"Oh yes! She is ever so nice!"

"I am glad." Elizabeth smiled, for this, too, would be useful.

They spoke for some minutes more of frivolous topics, in chance the Berewick footman was to report back to his master on the length of the call, and then Elizabeth took her leave and Henry's arm. By the time she entered the house, the riding-party had all returned, and Darcy had arranged for a little nuncheon in the saloon, to fortify Mary and David before they set off for Wincham. Marianne, Emma, and Caroline had been allowed to eat in the room and say their good-byes, although it seemed the three were spending more of their time excitedly discussing the pony-rides they had enjoyed on Clover – Caroline's the longer ride with the older children, the other two girls a few turns about the paddock. Charles seemed particularly delighted about his daughter's new interest in her pony, and Elizabeth hoped the child would continue to be more staid about riding, for two children of Bess's ilk on ponyback would be quite a lot for the Bingleys to manage.

* * *

Marianne had been so enthused regarding the pony ride that she continued chattering about it as the Stantons put her up into the Darcys' post-chaise, and only when she was seated and looking out the window at the waving, crying children who had quickly become her dearest friends did she comprehend she was being taken away from them, and begin weeping herself. They had wished to return to Wincham before tomorrow's service, but Mary wondered if perhaps they should have left another Sunday to a curate and allowed Marianne more time with her cousins. The little girls had done much to transform Marianne from the frightened, traumatised child Mary had brought to Pemberley so precipitously, and she was grateful to them.

It was harder to forget the event as an adult, the violence that had occurred in her own, beloved home. It would be harder to return to Wincham and look at Mr. Johnson without shame over what had occurred within her family, to look at her servants without recalling those awful minutes. They would be sympathetic, she knew, just as they had been sympathetic and helpful after the event. Mary did not want their sympathy, however; she wanted her family to be as respected as it had been before.

As though he sensed her thoughts, David reached over and clasped her hand. "I promise you, Mary, I will do everything in my power to return us to a happy life. It may not be quite the same as what we had before – I know we can never completely forget what happened, but I think we can find happiness."

Mary nodded, and vowed to herself that it would be true. They would have happiness again, and she would walk into St. Mary Magdalene tomorrow with her head held high and her affections for her husband as evident as she had ever made them before the congregation.

Poor Marianne was still whimpering, and she burrowed herself into her mother's side, seeking comfort. "Oh my poor baby, you shall see them again. Emma is not even a day's journey from us."

Marianne was not yet of an age to be consoled by future meetings so soon after parting, and so she continued to whimper.

"I think perhaps we should get her a dog, as Georgiana did for Caroline," said Mary. "She wished for her to have a friend that was always near."

"I had been thinking along those lines, but a slightly different species," said David. He gave no further indication of precisely what species he intended until he asked the driver to stop at the glebe farm's barn. There, Marianne was encouraged to exit the carriage with her father and go to a cosy little corner of the barn where one of the cats laid with two little wriggling balls of fur. The cat was nameless, but she was of that disposition most desirable in a barn cat, of being fairly affectionate to humans while an absolute terror when it came to mice and rats.

Marianne squealed, to see the little creatures, and their mother watched her with forbearance as she picked each of them up. One was a tabby, the other piebald, and they crawled all over her lap as she giggled.

"How do you like them, Marianne?" asked David. "Would you wish to make them your pets?"

"Yes, papa!"

"Then we shall. They are too young to leave their mother right now, but you may come to visit them every day until they are old enough to leave her."

Marianne giggled again as the tabby endeavoured to climb her arm, and Mary looked over to David and smiled. When she had suggested a dog she had certainly been thinking of one much smaller than Caroline's, but kittens were a better fit for their household; they could live in the nursery with Marianne but be taught to use a box of ashes as the kitchen cats at Longbourn had done. Marianne did not require some great vast dog that could live with her wherever she travelled; she needed pets for hearth and home, and their home could certainly use the little infusion of happiness – and likely chaos, at least at first – that two kittens would bring them. And if Mary's health continued to be good, soon enough Marianne would have a brother or sister, who might eventually enjoy the cats as well.

* * *

Elizabeth had felt a certain strangeness creeping up on her during her morning calls, the strangeness of carrying on with such business the day after they had buried Lydia. She had felt it still more as they had said their farewells to Mary, Marianne, and David. Lydia had not been what had brought them to Pemberley, but she was why they had stayed, and it was strange to send them off without once mentioning her name, strange to not be dressed in mourning. She had wondered with a pang if perhaps they were not doing the right thing, if they were dishonouring Lydia in their lack of mourning. The Darcys might experience some respite now that the news of Elizabeth's being unwell would likely spread through the neighbourhood via Mrs. Houlton, but if her health improved, she would be expected to go to dinners and balls – to host dinners and balls – and pretend she had not experienced the greatest loss in her life so far.

So far. This pained her as well. Either her parents would help bury her, or she would know their loss. Either way, it was a dreadful thought, and after Darcy had gone up with her, encouraging her once more to rest, she had lain in his bed and wept silently, feeling very heartsore.

Yet not so heartsore as she would have been, had she still been without his presence, had she been in that monstrous bed that was presently hers, and when once again her tall and handsome nurse served her trays full of her preferred foods, she felt a little better soothed. It would go like this, she thought, these moments of comfort interspersed with remembrance and grief. Elizabeth understood this had become her year to receive her first lessons in grief – none of her grandparents had lived long enough for her to know them well – and while they were hard lessons, she had been due to have them.

She had recalled during Darcy's various ministrations that she had yet to show him the journal entries she had wished to, and told him she wished to go retrieve the volume. In vain did he endeavour to convince her to let him go himself; she was not, she protested, such an invalid as that. So she walked through their chambers and opened the drawer to the commode, to pull out the journal she had set aside. She had put away the diamond necklace, but Dr. Alderman's letter still laid there on the marble top, and she picked it up as well, determining Darcy would know where best to put it – somewhere it would be safe and protected, yet also hidden.

When she put this query to him, he said, "There is a place, and in truth I ought to have shown it to you earlier, but there has not been a need to do so before now."

He bade her put on a dressing-gown and led her down to the library. There was no footman there at this time in the evening, and therefore she was his only witness as he crossed the room to one of the shelves and began pulling the books from it.

"There is no latch or pull – you must use the pressure of your own fingers to open it," said he. Then he laid his hand on the back of the shelf, pressing firmly as he slid it to the right. This revealed a lead-lined compartment large enough to hold some documents of parchment and vellum, and a few very old books.

"I hope this house never ceases to have little secrets, to reveal," said Elizabeth. "If you know of more, do not tell me of them yet."

He smiled faintly, took the letter from her, and laid it down atop the other documents. "There is always a copy of my most recent will kept in there as well as in my study, and I intend to put the last lease between Pemberley and Berewick within as well, before we confront Sinclair."

"Who all knows of this?" asked Elizabeth.

"No-one living except you, and no-one else shall until it is time for me to reveal it to James." He closed the compartment and she helped him return the books to their places, taking care to ensure the shelf looked as uniform as it had before, and memorising its location within the library. They went back upstairs, to his bed, and Elizabeth directed him as to where he should begin reading – his mother's sadness at seeing him go off to school. His face was grave as he read and grew graver still when he reached what must have been that Christmas at Pemberley. Elizabeth knew when he reached his parents' argument, for his eyes filled with tears, which spilled over a few minutes later.

"I never knew," he whispered. "I recall her attentions towards me at Christmas and Easter, and I recall particularly the time they took me out of school. How happy I was – they took me to town for a few days, several times to a pastrycook for ice creams, and once to Astley's, and I went with my father to try several ponies trained in jumping, until we found dear old Lyra. I felt so special, to be singled out by my parents for such amusements. It was only later that I thought on how emotional my mother had been, how tightly she had embraced me whenever she saw me. It was strange, for her, and I began to fear something was wrong with her, that perhaps she was dying. It was a relief to go home that summer and see she was as she usually was – and a still greater happiness when my parents said we would go to the Lakes, just the three of us. I had feared papa would wish to take George Wickham – I had no notion of how strongly my mother fought on my behalf. She was always the perfectly obedient wife, always deferring to his wishes, and to learn the one time she did not defer was over this – I have not done her justice, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth gazed at him sympathetically. "I am glad you understand her better now, but as for her feelings, if there is one thing I have learned in reading her journals, it is that your mother loved you with all her heart, and she never felt you lacking in any reciprocation."

He swallowed. "She is a far more excellent creature than I had understood, then. Elizabeth, there were times I resented her – not herself, particularly, but it was plain enough to me whom I had inherited my nature from."

"She did feel guilt over that."

"She should not have – I see that now. There was nothing she could have done to change me. Unlike my father, though, she _knew_ me. I admired my father deeply – I always wanted to be more like him, and I suppose now I see that _he_ wanted me to be more like him. It would have been easier to be master of Pemberley, had I been more like him, and it took me a very long time to understand that I had other qualities, other skills, that could be valuable in my role."

Such as solving every problem put to him, Elizabeth thought, but did not say.

"I never knew how well mama understood. If she had not intervened, I am certain I would have grown up jealous and resentful," Darcy said. "I was able to recover from selfishness and pride, thanks to you – but I do not know that my character could have survived such damages as it might have suffered."

Darcy had always spoken of his father in more enthusiastic tones than his mother, and Elizabeth had the sense now that this would no longer be the case, that they had become more equal in his mind. This must mean some lessening of his esteem for the man he had always deeply valued, but for her part in it she felt vindication on behalf of Lady Anne. She had fought for her son all those years ago, and now she had earned still more, in this greater share of filial affections.

"That first year at Eton was very difficult for you, was it not?" she asked.

"It was. I will not say it was the most difficult of my life, but it was certainly the most difficult up to that point. The first month was hard because I had left the hearth and home and comfort I had known all my life, but at least at that time I thought I had a friend near my age, in Wickham. It was only as the weeks after that passed that I came to understand he pretended friendship with me, while belittling me to his new friends, using mockery of me as a means of entertaining them. I understood then that I could not rely upon his friendship, but nor was I any good at making friends. That was when I realised there was something wrong with me – something I blamed on my mother."

"My darling, there is nothing wrong with you."

"So says the woman I insulted at a public assembly." He smiled faintly, endeavouring to show that it was at least in part a jest, but it was clear the topic pained him. "I do not enjoy society, and I do not converse easily – when I do speak I often say something I regret as soon as it is said. I find the words awkward, or the tone wanting, or the topic I have introduced is not at all what anyone else has interest in. I have endeavoured to practice, as you once suggested, but I fear I have improved but little. My only saving grace has been sports, over which I can converse quite readily with other men, and those others in my life who have helped me. Edward – thank God for Edward in my Eton days – and then Charles, and now you. Most particularly you."

His eyes filled with tears, and she knew what he was thinking. She pleaded with her eyes that he would not speak of it, and he remained silent, but his love and concern were both readily apparent in his countenance.

* * *

Catherine sat quietly in the light of the lamp, slowly feeding little Cate, the nickname she and Andrew had taken to calling the child. Although Lydia had always called her sister Kitty, right to the end, Catherine did not wish to saddle her child with a name she had eschewed herself, and they had begun to settle on Cathy, but found Lizzy had a strong dislike of the name. So now she was Cate, to all of them.

The Ramseys were not yet ready to say _our_ child, and they might not ever be. While Catherine recognised the importance of protecting Cate, it felt strange to her, to pass the child off as hers, to cease speaking of Lydia after she had gone into the ground.

She felt doubt, most often. Doubt that she could mother this child most of all, when she had not borne her and could not nurse her properly. Doubt that she could ever look at the baby and not think painfully of her real mother.

Doubt was often intermingled with guilt. Not just the guilt of _living_ , but also guilt towards the child she had nearly taken in. George Nichols would remain at Pemberley – the Ramseys were agreed on this. Catherine had found the sudden addition of one child overwhelming; they could not contemplate another at such a time, and to adopt a boy older than Cate, when she had promised her sister on her deathbed that Cate would be her heir, would have resulted in a nursery with far stranger expectations than that of Pemberley, where a younger girl was favoured over an elder boy, so far as inheritance went.

Catherine felt anger, too. Anger at her family for agreeing so readily to such a plan. Anger at Lydia for putting her in such a predicament. Anger even at the child, for giving Catherine everything she had ever wanted, but at a cost she had never fathomed.

Georgiana said these feelings were natural. It was easy to forget Georgiana had suffered so many losses: mother, father, and even husband, for a time. She knew a lot more about how grief worked, and the main thing she always said was that time would make it better. How much time, though? This was what Catherine wondered. How much time was necessary for the grief to fade, when she would be faced with such a constant reminder?

Cate turned her head at the proffered moistened flannel, indicating she was done feeding, and Catherine picked her up and held the baby against her chest, the child seeming to melt against her. It caught her then, as it occasionally did: that feeling of maternal fulfilment, that feeling of holding a child that was hers. These moments were few, but they were what gave her hope. Perhaps, Catherine thought, time was what would make them come more frequently than the other feelings.


	47. Part 2, Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

The Stantons, Ramseys, and Bennets departed next, in a long line of carriages bound for Liverpool. Elizabeth watched them go hoping that at the very least, her mother was not prone to seasickness. She did not think Mrs. Bennet had ever been on a ship before and she was not likely to be a complacent sailor even if she was stout of stomach; seasickness would make the journey even worse for all involved. Things would already be difficult enough under the present circumstances, with Catherine cradling her new and very unexpected child in her arms.

The Bingleys left the day following, and Elizabeth felt the loss of her family's company deeply, particularly when she considered the one whose company could never be returned to her. Tears sprang to her eyes as she thought of the picnic in the Temple of Diana; she could never have considered that it would be the last time she was ever together with all five of her sisters. Lydia's body might always rest here at Pemberley, but her soul was gone.

Elizabeth felt trepidation for herself as well, for an express had come from town indicating both Dr. Whittling and Dr. McMullen had been available to make the journey to Pemberley. It was followed three days later by the arrival of their carriage in the drive, and they were invited into the house and shown to their rooms by Mrs. Reynolds. Elizabeth sat in the saloon in nervous anticipation; it was right that the physicians be allowed to refresh themselves after travelling so far, but she had no notion of how long they would take and whether they would wish to see her immediately after they were done. For her own part she was not even sure if she wished the examination to be done quickly, for after it was done she would _know_ , and she might not like what she knew.

Dr. McMullen came into the saloon a quarter-hour after his arrival, however, and Dr. Whittling was but five minutes behind him. Each bowed to where the Darcys sat silently, worriedly holding hands on the sofa, and Dr. Whittling asked, "Do you have a room that you would prefer for the examination?"

"Yes, my bedchamber." It was not really the room she preferred for anything, but somehow it felt like the only proper choice for this situation.

"You will need a chaperone," said Dr. McMullen. "Your maid or your husband would be best."

"May I have them both with me?"

"Of course."

They went up to the bedroom together. Sarah was waiting there, and Elizabeth was glad of her presence for many reasons, but most practically because her hands were shaking too badly to be of any assistance in removing her dress. She recalled with what fortitude Mrs. Nichols had done this, and felt hot, ashamed tears prickle in her eyes. The men had all gone into her dressing-room to wait while she was changed per the physicians' direction into a dressing-gown and naught else, and when this was done Sarah gave her a concerned look and then went to the dressing-room door to open it.

"Let us just have you lay down on the chaise here," said Dr. Whittling calmly. "Same as in my office in London."

She nodded, laid herself down on that awful gilded thing, and immediately began to fidget with her hands. Glancing at Darcy, she felt the strongest desire for him to come over and hold one of them, but there was no room for him; the physicians were kneeling before the chaise. Elizabeth wished she had thought to have it moved away from the bed.

It was Dr. Whittling who took her hand instead. "Arms over your head," he said gently. He had seen her the most, of any man in the medical profession; he was well aware this was not her normal demeanour.

"We'll expose the right breast first, and then the left," said Dr. McMullen. "May we proceed?"

"You may," whispered Elizabeth.

He slipped the dressing-gown to the side and they began an extensive palpitation of her right breast, then the left, and then her stomach. She felt the mortification of being prodded so thoroughly in such places, and longed for it to be over. Then her mortification shifted to alarm as they began conversing in Latin, until she recalled her husband could speak that language; she watched him carefully and found reassurance that he seemed more contemplative than concerned.

Dr. Whittling indicated she could bring her hands down and close the dressing-down, which she did to her great relief.

"Mrs. Darcy, I have a question to ask that will seem an impertinence, but you must answer me honestly, or if you prefer your husband may do so. Have you and your husband resumed marital relations since Master Charles's birth?"

"We have," Elizabeth said, her face warm.

"For some weeks, at least?"

"Yes." In truth it had been much longer than that, but Elizabeth saw no reason to enlighten them of this.

Dr. Whittling nodded. "We find no evidence of a cancer of the breast, nor of the belly, and I have _never_ heard of a cancer spreading in the way you have feared. When your husband wrote of your symptoms and that you were still nursing Master Charles, I had a suspicion of the most likely cause, and Dr. McMullen agrees with me: you are in the family way again, and your body is struggling to sustain one child and grow another."

"But I never had my courses, and I have not been sick in the mornings," she protested.

"It is very possible and common enough to get with child just as your courses return, so that you never bleed. As for the illness, pregnancy while still nursing can do a great deal of disturbance to the humours in your body. It would not surprise me if you find it comes back once you wean Master Charles, and you _must_ wean him. If it is another child, your weight at present is such as to give me concern you will lose it, if you do not take measures immediately."

"But he will not take anything else," Elizabeth said, then voicing another of her fears, "Will you both examine him while you are here, to see if something else is the matter with him?"

"Of course," said Dr. McMullen, "but for a child that takes reluctantly to weaning, often hunger must be the motivating factor. You may feed him once per day for the first week, to allow your milk to stop more naturally, but no more. And you must allow him less at each feeding, even if he must be pulled from the breast."

At Elizabeth's horrified reaction to this, Dr. Whittling added, "You must do this, Mrs. Darcy, for the sake of your unborn child."

"Is there any chance it is not another pregnancy?" Elizabeth asked.

"There is," replied Dr. Whittling, "but for now you should proceed as if you are carrying a child. If months pass and you are still fatigued yet not in the family way, we will return and examine you again."

Elizabeth nodded. "May I speak with Mr. Darcy privately?"

She felt such a swirl of emotions as they left that when the door closed all she could do was fling herself into Darcy's arms, weeping. There was elation, certainly – she was likely not dying of cancer – but also worry. It could not be otherwise after poor Lydia's death, and with the thought that she must tear her own child from her breast and listen to his cries of hunger.

"Oh my darling, there is hope – there is hope," Darcy was murmuring to her. "Do not worry over Charles. We will find him a wet nurse if we must. Dr. Whittling said he had never heard of a cancer spreading thus. And the milch ass should be here tomorrow."

"You are putting a great degree of hope on this milch ass."

"Optimism, my dear. Remember what you taught me," he said.

Yes, optimism. How glad she was that he had absorbed that lesson so well as to be the one to recall her to it now. Lydia had died bearing her first child, but Elizabeth had already borne three with no difficulties beyond the complexities of twins.

"A girl," she said. "How I would like to have a girl this time – a sweet little creature like Emma or Marianne or Caroline."

"I would not," said he, and then noticing her disappointment, "I wish for a girl as well, but I want an impertinent little child with bewitching eyes who gets up to mischief and runs faster than any of her brothers."

Elizabeth laughed. "I ran faster than my sisters, but I could not outrun all the boys of the neighbourhood."

"Yes, but she will inherit some of my height, so I have great hopes for her."

Elizabeth chuckled, and he kissed the tip of her nose. "Come and help me – I must dress so they can see Charles."

Charles did not like his examination by these physicians any more than the one done to him by Dr. Alderman, although he submitted to it with less howling than the last time. Unlike Dr. Alderman, they were more thorough, checking mouth first but then moving on to examine his limbs, and then his chest. Dr. McMullen produced a wooden cylinder and pressed it up against Charles's chest, all of the Darcys involved in this examination staring at him curiously.

He put his ear to it and listened for some time, then drew back and said, "'Tis called a stethoscope. A Frenchman invented it, name of Laennec. It makes it easier to listen to the chest."

Elizabeth nodded, and then the doctors moved back up to his ears, again conversing in Latin for a minute or so.

"He's not walking yet, is that correct?" asked Dr. McMullen.

"No," said Elizabeth, frowning. "He can pull himself up to standing readily enough, but he's not attempted to walk, even with one of us holding his hand."

Both doctors nodded, as though they had been expecting this.

"He's got a mild infection of the ears," said Dr. McMullen. "Such things can affect his balance."

"But how can he have an infection – he's never seemed to be in pain!" exclaimed Elizabeth, ashamed that her child had been ill and no-one had noticed.

"As I said, 'tis mild," Dr. McMullen stated. "If it's been going on for some time the lad has likely gotten used to it, and may show only a little irritation. Does he rub his ears at all?"

"Oh – he does, every once and a while," responded Elizabeth tearily.

"Do not worry yourself over it, Mrs. Darcy," said Dr. McMullen. "These sorts of infections respond very well to sweet oil. Put it in his ears thrice daily and you will see improvement quickly enough."

Dr. Whittling nodded. "Aside from that, his constitution is slightly weak, but it _has_ improved since he was born. I see no cause for serious concern, and certainly no evidence of cancer."

Elizabeth willed herself to be stoic, although her body was endeavouring to force a sob from her. She was grateful for Darcy's reaching down to clasp her hand, squeezing it tight and wordlessly telling her that his relief equalled hers.

The physicians dined with them that evening, an evening that proved much more pleasant than it would have, had their diagnoses been otherwise. Indeed, the only difficult spot came when Dr. Whittling turned to Elizabeth and said, "May I ask what happened to that woman from your neighbourhood you wished me to come up and attend? The one where part of the afterbirth had been retained?"

Elizabeth nearly choked on another sudden sob.

"She died, I am afraid," stated Darcy.

"I am sorry – I should not have raised the topic," said Dr. Whittling. "I understand it must be unsettling to you, Mrs. Darcy, but if you follow our direction I have no concerns over your regaining health and successfully bearing this child just as you have done for the last three."

"Thank you," whispered Elizabeth, looking pleadingly to her husband. "I think I shall go through to the drawing-room now."

Darcy did as she had wished him to do and kept the physicians plied with drinks and conversation long enough that Elizabeth – having cried for a good half-hour by herself in the drawing-room – felt no qualms in leaving word that she was feeling rather tired after the events of the day and would go up to bed. It was strange, to have Sarah change her but not go into the dressing-room to give Charles his last feeding for the day; they had agreed to give him his first test of hunger that night, to see if perhaps desperation made food more amenable to him in the morning. He had been moved to one of the bedrooms off of the nursery, in chance his cries distressed the other children.

It was not long before Darcy came into his bedchamber, smelling faintly of brandy but not at all in his cups. She thanked him for entertaining the men for so long, to which his response was, "'Twas nothing. I enjoy conversation with scientific men much more than most – they have more interesting things to speak of," he said. "Are you well, my darling? That must have been a very unexpected reminder."

"It was, and now I worry that he may speak of it to others."

"He was not aware she was your sister?"

"No – I thought it better to be vague about the situation and explain it if he came."

Darcy nodded. "I do not think he will speak of it. His query seemed a curiosity to know the outcome, no more. And if he does, it could only be that some acquaintance of yours from Derbyshire had died in childbirth. Hardly a specific event, I think. It might have been one of our tenants, for all he knows."

It would be difficult to believe of most families, Elizabeth thought, that they would be willing to bring in a prominent London accoucheur to tend to a tenant's wife. But of Fitzwilliam Darcy's family? Why yes, they might just find that believable.

He ran his finger along her cheek. "I know this time cannot be easy – pretending to carry on with life so soon after the death of your sister."

"It is not just that. Sometimes I completely forget she has died. She was absent for so long, I fall back to thinking she is still in America. Then I remember she is not, I remember she died here, under my own roof. I remember she is buried here, and it hurts so badly. I wish I could mourn her, to remember her better."

"The forgetting is part of grief, my darling. Even now, years later and while I bear his burdens, I still sometimes think of something I wish to share with my father, believing in that moment that he is still here so that I _can_ share it with him. Or I dream of him and mama, and it is so real it takes time when I wake, to recall they are gone. I have come to think of the dreams as a gift, though. Sometimes I dream they are still here, and they know you and love you; they know their grandchildren. And I wonder if perhaps those dreams are a little journey their souls are allowed, to visit those they have left behind and provide some comfort."

"I have not had any dreams like that yet."

"You will – it takes time for them to come. And it may be a rather long time for Lydia. At present her soul is likely chatting up Cleopatra or Marie Antoinette, or Lord knows who else."

Elizabeth laughed even as her eyes flooded with tears. It was a vivid picture, a painfully, wonderfully vivid picture. "I hope there are assemblies, in Heaven."

"I am sure there are, and she shall dance every dance, and when the music stops, she will think to come and visit us; she will look down to see how her little girl fares."

"I hope she will approve of what we have done," she said.

"I believe she will."

They settled into silence, and Elizabeth snuggled up against him.

"Elizabeth?"

"Hmm?"

"I do have a place we can go, where we can live a quieter life, a more reflective life if you wish. It would not quite be formal mourning, but it would be something beyond continuing on in a manner that allows you to forget. I had not intended it for that purpose – my wish was simply to have it restored to the family."

"Darcy, I do not understand what you are speaking of."

"Your asking about the old house at the Lakes brought back many fond reminiscences for me. I sent a man of business to make enquiries as to its availability while I was in town. You may think it premature of me, but I had intended to go there by myself, if our reconciliation took – took longer than it did."

"I do not think it premature of you, but nor would I have liked you hiding away from Pemberley, where you belong," said she. "Was it available?"

"Yes. After the lease with my family lapsed, no new tenant was found. The owner was quite happy to sell it to me."

" _Sell_ it to you?"

"Yes. I expected the cost would be trifling for a farmhouse and some few acres, and it was. My man was prepared to negotiate a lease or a sale, but with preference given to a sale, and so we own it. I had hoped it to be a place where our family made the same sorts of memories I made with my own parents, but once we had reconciled I did not wish to speak of it until we knew more about your health. Now that we do, I think it might be the perfect place for you to convalesce and mourn, although we might need a week or a fortnight before we could go there. I cannot imagine it to be in excellent repair after so many years, and we should endeavour to get things more resolved with Charles and the Sinclairs."

"Oh my darling, I am delighted you would do this for your family, and I think you are right that it would be the perfect place to mourn and convalesce."

"Do not be mistaken, Elizabeth: I did this for _you_. All my dreams, all my hopes for the future are for you, and the sons you have given me. We are a family, yes, but we are a family who needs our matriarch above all else."

Elizabeth gazed at him, smiling tearily and feeling the tremendous relief of knowing her family was far more likely to have her with them well into the future than she had feared that morning.

* * *

Little Charles was certainly hungry, but his hunger did not make him visibly upset, nor did it prompt him to take any of the food that had been prepared for him the next morning. Elizabeth and Darcy saw the physicians off following breakfast, and then Darcy followed Elizabeth up the stairs, so she could allow the child his one feeding that day. Before they went into the bedchamber, he touched her shoulder and said, "When the time comes to pull him away, I will do it. I feel it should be one of his parents, but not his mother. I would never make you take such an action."

"Thank you," whispered Elizabeth. She was grieved that poor Charles should have to go through such a thing, but exceedingly grateful to Darcy that he would not make her commit the painful act.

Darcy was true to his word, pulling Charles away from her when she murmured to him that it was time.

"Papa!" exclaimed the boy in protest. "Papa, hugwy!"

Elizabeth could listen to no more and fled the room. Darcy was but a few minutes behind her, and came up to her where she was leaning against the hallway wall, weeping.

"Sawyer has him. She and Browning are offering him other food again," he said. "They should have brought the curricle around by now – I thought you might like to take some air and get away from here. You have been indoors much more than is your usual wont, of late."

Elizabeth nodded, grateful to him for planning this distraction for her. She was not well enough for a long walk or ride, but he was right that some time out of doors would do her well.

When they reached the drive, he assisted her with even more care than he ever had before up into the seat, then went around to his side and jumped in, taking up his whip and ribbons and then setting the team off at a walk and then a trot, once they reached the lane. Further down the lane could be seen a somewhat odd equine creature, and as they drew closer the animal's giant ears, bobbing with every step, made clear this was the expected milch ass. The farmer leading her drew her off to the side of the lane so they could pass, and husband and wife exchanged hopeful glances.

Darcy took the lane that led towards Kympton, keeping his team at a steady trot. Breathing in the late summer air, Elizabeth felt some of that peace that being out of doors brought her. It could not be a complete peace – not with all that had happened of late, and not with poor little Charles feeling his necessary hunger back at the house – but it was a little peace, nonetheless, and it was very welcome.

The first farm they passed was that of the Metcalfes. It was one of the smallest on the estate – a little more than two hundred acres for most of the years the family had farmed it, although Mr. Metcalfe had taken on another twenty-five acres in the breaking up of old Stonebridge Farm. The Metcalfes were good people, and Elizabeth respected them particularly for keeping their son at home when many might have sent such a boy away. Perhaps it was because they could not afford to do so, but still, he was home where Elizabeth felt he belonged. And he was of some use around the farm – the boy adored horses, and had managed the farm's horse since he had been a young boy. He was out in the nearest field with her, walking alongside the stout old mare as she pulled a cart; his father and other labourers filling it with sheaves of barley. Jemmy Brown was not among them, but Elizabeth presumed he had gotten work on one of the other farms; now that the harvests had returned to something nearer their old substance, this was the one time of year when every labourer was guaranteed ample work.

"Metcalfe makes good progress on his harvest," stated Darcy. "I wish he would have taken on more acreage when we broke up Stonebridge, but I understand his reasons for not wishing to overextend himself."

The boy – Silas, was his name – halted the mare and stared avidly at Darcy's team pulling the curricle, which prompted Metcalfe and the others to stop and doff their caps to the Darcys. Yet even when they directed Silas should continue on, he continued to stare, until his father came up and gently put his arm around the boy, returning his focus to the mare. Yes, Elizabeth thought, they were very good people, the Metcalfes.

Darcy drove on for some time, and then pulled his team down to a walk and then a halt. "Look there, on your left," he stated. "I wanted to get you out of doors regardless, but I did particularly wish for you to see this."

Elizabeth turned to her left and her jaw fell. There, on the lane up to Berewick, was what could only be described as a turnpike gate, plainly new-built. It did not have a toll house, but did have a little sheltered booth for a guard, and one of their undergardeners stepped out of this structure, bowing to Darcy.

"Good day to you, Owen," said Darcy.

"Good day t'ye, sir. No-one's try'da pass, on my watch."

Nor could they, with the gate closed. The hedges were close and tall in this part of the lane, and Jasper and his men had run the fence well into them, a fence high enough that even old Kingfisher could not have jumped it. As if the impermeability of the fence and gate were not sufficient, a sign hung from the latter stating:

"No Trespassing

"Unauthorized Persons Will Be Shot"

"Darcy, you're not actually intending to shoot him, are you?"

"I've no qualms about scaring him as much as his men did poor Bernard Kelly, but at present, nothing more than that. The posting of the sign merely gives me the legal right to do so, and I hope it will give him pause."

Elizabeth nodded. "He will be furious, when he sees it. I cannot believe they built such a thing so quickly. Poor Jasper has completed two special projects in less than a week. We must give him a substantial bonus, my love."

"Jasper is one of those men for whom doing quality work – and enjoying recognition of it – is just as important as his wages," said Darcy. "But yes, we shall ensure his Christmas box is very heavy this year, and give him some days of respite after he finishes the repairs on the lake house."

"My love, thank you," Elizabeth said, laying her hand upon his arm. "You have done much, to aid my friend."

He laid his whip down upon his lap and covered her hand with his. "It was the right thing to do, and I am grateful to you for pushing me to find a way to do it. It is not just that Mrs. Sinclair is your friend – she is a woman of this neighbourhood, and she deserves to have this neighbourhood come to her defence."

* * *

Little Charles did drink a little of the asses's milk – a very little – in the evening. Elizabeth learned of this when a triumphant Browning came running into her dressing-room just as Sarah had finished changing her. Browning was usually a staid girl, but in fits and starts she told of how Charles had hesitantly clasped the pewter cup – they'd thought he might like that better than a pap boat – and taken a few sips of milk, and then a few more. He had not drank the entire cup, but surely it was progress.

Elizabeth agreed, and took this happy news into her husband's bedchamber with her, sharing with him that he had – once again – very likely solved the problem. For her own part she felt tremendously relieved, and more hopeful; if Charles could begin to wean, perhaps eventually he could be coaxed into eating solid foods. For her own part, she could begin to focus more on her own health, on the new child she might be carrying. Darcy was wholly in agreement with her on this, and kissed her with great fervency upon hearing the news.

This did not mean Charles was less eager on his mother's breast the next morning after breakfast, however; he made it very clear this was still his preferred sort of milk, and once again scolded his father for pulling him away from his mother. Yet Darcy told Elizabeth that the child had been consoled with a little asses's milk, which was sufficient for both of them to understand their hesitant hopes had been fulfilled. Darcy still took her out for a little drive in the curricle, their route a simple meander around the park, without his having anything particular to show her.

When they returned, he indicated with reluctance that he needed to attend to some correspondence in his study, and Elizabeth asked if she might go thither with him, which caused him a measure of consternation before he said of course she could – was not her own secretaire within? It still was, and Elizabeth still considered removing it. In all that had happened between them and all she had read of his mother's nature, Elizabeth had concluded that she ought to have considered that room more sacrosanct than she had since they had been married. There was no space private of his, no place for him to retreat when he needed to be alone. Now, he was concerned for her health and wished to be near her, but there would come a time again in the future when they quarrelled, or he simply wished to be alone, and when he needed a space to retreat to, Elizabeth did not want it to be his bedchamber. She could not bear to see that door closed before her again.

For today, though, she went down with him and made some progress on her correspondence as he scratched away at his own. This lasted for some time until there came a knock at the door, which proved to be Parker.

"Mr. Sinclair is here, sir, and he insists upon seeing you _immediately_." he gave a little sniff, making subtly apparent just what he thought of the likes of Mr. Sinclair demanding to see his master.

Darcy gave his wife a particular glance. "Send him in, Parker. Please have two footmen waiting outside the door, in chance he needs to be escorted out, and tell Richardson to send out the men."

Parker's eyes widened, but his tone was as professional as ever as he said, "Yes, sir, as you wish."

No more than three minutes later, Laurence Sinclair strode into the room, dusty from travelling and dangerously red in the face.

"What is the meaning of this – this – toll-gate?" he cried.

Darcy took a deep breath. His colour was heightened, although not nearly so bad as Sinclair's, and his voice was calm as he said, "It has come to my attention that the lease for that lane expired with your father's generation."

Sinclair trembled in his rage. "Well then we shall renew it! There is no reason for a bloody toll-gate."

"I will not renew it, and the toll-gate shall remain. You will be allowed free passage, so long as you meet my conditions."

"Conditions? What conditions?"

"Agree to a separation from your wife, by private deed. I have taken the liberty of having the papers drawn up for you to review. I think you will find the stipend given to your wife to be smaller than usual in such cases; she has friends who are willing to aid her, and want nothing more than to have her safely out from under your roof."

"You have no right to interfere in my domestic matters!"

Darcy took a long, slow breath. "I do have a right to control passage on my land, however."

Sinclair had turned even redder, if such a thing was possible. "I'll not bear such interference. I am the magistrate around here – you have forgotten that. You have no means to stop me."

"Mr. Kinsley is quite ready to take you up for trespassing, if it comes to that, or to bind you to keep the peace with your wife. You have not endeared yourself to your fellow magistrates."

"I'll build a lane over Castle Hill, then."

"I do not know of any horses in the country that could pull a carriage over such a grade, but even if such beasts did exist, you would need permission from the lord of the manor for passage over that land."

"I'll get it, then. Surely he is easier to work with than _you_."

"I am the lord of the manor," stated Darcy.

"You – but what you propose is impossible! I cannot remarry if I do this, can I?"

"No, neither you nor Mrs. Sinclair would be able to remarry."

"Well then I can't do it. I have no heir."

Elizabeth's stomach dropped precipitously, at the thought of bringing a child into such a situation. Abigail had not indicated any chance that she was with child, but Elizabeth knew full well it could take time to recognise the signs, in a first pregnancy.

"An heir will be of little use for an estate you cannot access," stated Darcy.

Sinclair huffed and glared, and for one awful moment Elizabeth considered the possibility that he might call her husband out. He did not, though, and instead gave Elizabeth a particularly angry look and then turned on his heel and strode out of the study.

"That went about as well as I thought it would," said Darcy. "He will take some time, I think, to realise he has no choice in the matter. The men Richardson sent will make a half-hearted attempt at following him, for I expect he'll try to sneak onto the estate. I hope that he does – it will be easier to keep track of him there."

Elizabeth nodded. This was her expectation as well. What Laurence Sinclair did not know was that his wife was no longer at Berewick. She had been waiting at Green's in Lambton, under the watchful eyes of Sarah and Bernard Kelly, and had been taken up by the Bingleys on their drive home days ago. Abigail was now safe at Clareborne, outside the reach of any writ of habeas corpus that Sinclair might attempt to file against Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Elizabeth went to where Darcy sat behind his desk and leaned down to kiss his temple, an act for which she was rewarded by being pulled into his lap. "You were wonderful, my love. You could not have spoken better, I am sure."

He exhaled, long and slow. "It was not easy."

"I understand that so much better, now, and I am grateful to you for doing it."

"And I am grateful to you for believing that I could."

He laid his cheek against hers and they sat there together quietly, until a curious thought entered Elizabeth's mind.

"I did not want to ask him, my love, but do you know who won the St. Leger?"

"Yes – Albatross."

Elizabeth chuckled. "I am doubly glad I did not ask him, then. I cannot think that would have improved his temper."


	48. Part 2, Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

It pained Elizabeth, that she had not been to see Charles the previous evening, nor could she do so until the time they had designated she should feed him that morning. She knew her presence was likely to confuse or upset him since she could not feed him, and yet she missed him. She had attempted to make up for it by spending much of the evening in the drawing-room with the other boys, who were brought down by Miss Fischer to demonstrate their reading skills to their parents. The twins were much as she would have expected them to be: James read with mischievous delight, ploughing on through any words he did not know and giggling sporadically, and George read with utmost concentration, laborious but largely correct. As for George Nichols, he rushed and stammered nervously through his reading; Elizabeth had a sense that he still saw the Darcys as the people his mother had enforced as being his superiors, and she was not sure what they could do to lessen this impression.

Reading of her husband's upbringing with George Wickham had made this a subject she sometimes considered, and reading her husband's will had further highlighted the future hierarchy of these boys. They might talk of turning over the inheritance to one of the other boys if James was not worthy, but Elizabeth expected he would be. He was less serious than his twin brother, it was true, but he was no more mischievous than Elizabeth suspected she had been at his age. An intelligent and outgoing child, he would not be allowed idleness, and she thought he would make a fine master of Pemberley someday. George and Charles Darcy would find professions and would be aided in this by her husband's quite generous bequest to them. George Nichols had received generosity as well, and if he applied himself might also take up a more genteel profession than his parents had known, but he would not have the benefit of the Darcy name, nor the same fortune as had been granted the other boys. Still, though, at least there were four of them – soon, she prayed, to be five children – and thus the differences between them were less pronounced than they had been in the previous generation, when there had been only the heir to the estate and a very different George to share the nursery.

The Darcys followed what was promising to become a routine, after breakfast: Elizabeth nursed Charles for a little less time on this day, and then Darcy took him from her, reporting to her in the hall that the child had drank the entire cup of asses' milk this time. Then they had gone for another drive in the curricle. They arrived back at the house to learn two very interesting pieces of correspondence had arrived, both outside of the regular post.

The first item was a note in an angry, blotch-filled scrawl from Laurence Sinclair indicating that he would abide by Mr. Darcy's terms and sign the papers. Darcy had taken the notes into his study to read, and invited his wife to go with him thither; he gave Sinclair's note over to Elizabeth to read as he opened the second missive.

"I am being summoned to Chatsworth," Darcy stated.

"Summoned? To Chatsworth?"

"His Grace states it as an invitation to call upon him on Thursday, and to stay to dine if I am available, but for _him_ to do so, it is certainly a summons. I expect our neighbourhood disputes have come to his attention."

Elizabeth gazed at him in concern. They were not on unfriendly terms with the Duke of Devonshire, but neither were they close acquaintances, their houses being just far enough apart to prevent frequent sociability. They had been invited to a ball there last summer, and that was the first time Elizabeth had been inside the house as a guest, although she had seen it with her aunt and uncle during their trip to this county, the one that had changed Elizabeth's life.

"Oh my – do you think Laurence Sinclair went there last night, to complain over your actions?"

Darcy grimaced. "It is very possible. Sinclair did not become magistrate so quickly without support from the Lord Lieutenant of the county. They must have some degree of acquaintance."

"Yet Sinclair acquiesced, to your terms."

"Legally, he had no choice, but perhaps the duke intends to coax me into leniency," Darcy said. "I shall not yield, though, I promise you. He may summon me, but he has no means of control over me or my estate."

He said thus, but Elizabeth could plainly see he was worried, and she gazed at him in concern. She could almost see his resolve grow firmer, even before he reached out to clasp her hand and say, "It was the right thing to do, Elizabeth, and I shall stand by it. I shall hold fast – you have my word."

* * *

Thus it was in a somewhat perturbed manner that the Darcys went through their new routine the next day, knowing Mr. Darcy was to pay his required call the day following. Upon their return in the curricle, Elizabeth learned she had received a letter of her own, from Abigail, and decided to go to the library rather than either of the Darcys's studies, to read a short note mottled with what were surely tears of relief:

"My dear friend,

"We received Mr. Darcy's note, that Laurence has signed the papers for our separation. I can never thank you and Mr. Darcy enough, for finding a way to make me free of him. To think that I never need to see him again, never need to go back to Berewick – it fills me with so much relief.

"I understand you will be travelling to the Lakes soon, but I am grateful the Bingleys have been so welcoming to me and they have offered to let me stay as long as I wish. Jane is already becoming as dear a friend as you, and it has been helpful to me, to talk with her about the things Laurence did. I understand she has also gone through a difficult time in her life and she is so kind in listening to me. I am so fortunate to have such sympathetic friends!

"Your ever-grateful friend,

"ABIGAIL

"P.S. – I almost forgot to write of how thoughtful it was of Mr. Darcy to include Horace in the private deed. Laurence would never have ridden him, but I am sure he would have kept him out of spite. Jane has promised we will go out riding together once he arrives here at Clareborne."

Elizabeth smiled and murmured, "I can assure you, Abigail, he would never have forgotten the horse. I am certain every detail that needed to be attended to _was_ attended to, but most particularly the horse."

She remained in the library and took up _The Bride of Lammermoor_ from where she had left it on the sofa table, it having been superseded by Lady Anne's journals for so many weeks. She was finally moving past the first chapters when Darcy entered and said, "Miss Fischer is in my study – will you come and speak to her with me? There has been an incident, with James."

Elizabeth's hand came up to her chest and she gasped. "Is he hurt? Is he ill?"

"No, my dear – I am sorry, I should have spoken better. James has _caused_ an incident."

"Oh – oh no." Elizabeth rose and followed him to his study.

Miss Fischer was standing by the fireplace, her posture that of a young woman who was perfectly qualified to teach children deportment. "Mr. Darcy, Mrs. Darcy, I regret to inform you that James caused some degree of destruction, in the kitchen. Some of the boys were getting restless with their lessons, and I thought it would be nice for them to observe something of how the house operates. They did seem to enjoy the lesson, and Cook was very amenable to showing them what she was about, but we lost track of James and when we found him he was in the pastry-room, eating a cake that had been prepared for the harvest feast."

Elizabeth was still a little giddy in relief that James was well, and this in combination with the nature of his infraction left her struggling mightily to contain a fit of giggles. She glanced at Darcy out of the corner of her eye and found he was her partner in suppressed mirth.

"Since I have been here, none of the children has done anything that merited any punishment, but I believe this incident is cause for correction," stated Miss Fischer. "I wished to speak with you both as I did not know how you would wish for James to be disciplined."

"That was very right of you, Miss Fischer," stated Darcy. "This does merit correction, but I believe I may state from personal experience that boys can get up to far worse trouble than unauthorised eating of cake. We shall speak to James and warn him that any future infractions shall have worse consequences."

Miss Fischer nodded. "Thank you, sir, ma'am." She curtsied and left the room, and as soon as she had closed the door behind her, the Darcys burst out laughing.

"I must admit, I did not realise the first time we would be required to discipline any of our children would be over cake," said Elizabeth, her statement followed by a remnant fit of giggles.

Darcy bowed his head. "Nor I, although I must say I pilfered my fair share of sweets from the kitchen over the years. I fear if I must chastise James for anything, it is his technique. Attacking a prepared cake in the pastry-room is not the way to go about it – one must beg for one's pudding directly from Cook. She always knows what can be spared without consequences."

"Oh, I can just see you with your pitiful little chocolate-brown eyes. 'Please, Cook, may I have some pudding? Please, if I am ever to grow up to be impossibly tall, I must eat a great deal of your pastries.'"

He gave her a look that could only be described as a smirk. "Come, as ridiculous as the infraction was, it _was_ still an infraction, and we must try our hands at discipline."

It was clear by his countenance that James already had some sense he had done wrong, for he stared up at his parents guiltily as they entered the nursery. They both knelt down before him, but it was Darcy who spoke.

"James, I understand you went into the pastry-room and ate some of a cake without asking. You cannot just go and eat things from the kitchen as you please. That cake was made especially for the harvest feast. It was not meant for you to eat."

"Why, papa? Why can't I have that cake?"

"Because it is for the tenants."

"Why do they get the cake and I don't?"

"Because we have a feast every year for them, to celebrate completing the harvest."

"Why can't I go to the feast?"

"Because we do not go to the feast. Mr. Richardson attends on our behalf."

"Why?"

Here Darcy, who had been answering his son's questions in a calm, steady voice, appeared taken aback. "You know, James, I do not know. Many years ago, I believe we did, but not for some generations. Perhaps we should. Let us go talk to Richardson together – never let it be said that I am so set in my ways that I cannot take ideas from the next generation, even if he is still shy of five years old. And you ought to become acquainted with Mr. Richardson anyway, since you will be the next master of Pemberley."

Darcy rose and took his son's hand, leading him out of the nursery. It had not been particularly effective as a punishment, but Elizabeth also suspected James was going to be instructed on the methods of acquiring food from Cook during their walk. She was about to rise when George appeared at her side, looking concerned.

"Mama," he said, his voice so low she could hardly hear him. "What am I going to be?"

"What do you mean, my darling boy?"

"Everybody always says James is going to be master of Pemberley, but nobody ever says what I'm going to be."

Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath. She had thought they would have much more time to prepare for this conversation, and particularly that it would be both her and her husband to have it with George, but she could not leave such a question unanswered. Drawing her arm about his shoulders, she said, "You will get to choose what you want to be. You can be a clergyman like uncle David, or you can work in the law like great-uncle Phillips, or you can join the navy like uncle Matthew, or the army like uncle Edward."

"Do I have to choose now?"

"No George, you have many more years before you need to choose, and I am sure any of your uncles would be happy to talk to you about their professions, to help you make your decision."

He nodded, but then he said, "It's not very fair, mama."

Elizabeth swallowed. "I know, darling boy, but it is the way of things. James was born before you."

"So he doesn't get to choose, and I do," said George, scowling. "I wish James got to choose, too."

She kissed the top of his head. "I think James will be happy enough as master of Pemberley, and you will be happy in whatever profession you choose. You are so diligent, George, I am sure you will do well in whatever profession you decide upon."

"What does dil-i-gent mean, mama?"

"It means you are serious and you apply yourself to your studies, and that makes me very proud of you."

He smiled and scampered back over to the table in the middle of the room, upon which slates and hornbooks were neatly stacked, took up a slate, and began practising his letters. How achingly fond was her heart, to watch such a scene? Elizabeth sighed in contentment and thought with great relief on how easily the conversation with George had gone. Perhaps in future years he would come to understand the wealth and privileges that came with being master of Pemberley, and then jealousy might set in, but perhaps not. Perhaps George might be very well satisfied by choosing his profession and making his own way in life.

Elizabeth rose from the floor and seated herself in a chair by the window, watching the two Georges practise their letters. Charles had been moved back into the nursery now that his hunger could be appeased by the asses' milk, and she watched him crawl over to the table, using it to pull himself to standing. He had not rubbed his ears since they had begun to apply the sweet oil, and Elizabeth wondered if he would have developed more quickly, if some other physician had seen him when Dr. Alderman did. Her thoughts turned more positively when Charles removed his hands from the table and took one tentative step away from it.

Her heart in her throat, Elizabeth watched him take still another step, and then another. He was moving towards her, she realised, although in his first attempt it was not likely that he should cross the nursery. Quietly, she rose and walked towards him, waiting until he finally lost his balance before she rushed forward to catch him, taking him up in her arms and spinning him about.

He giggled, then snuggled against her as she pulled him close and kissed his forehead. "You're walking, my little one! Oh, how wonderful, how happy you've made me, my little Charles!"

Elizabeth was reluctant to leave the nursery, after such events involving her two youngest sons, but eventually she pulled herself away to go to Darcy's bedchamber and rest. This remained part of her daily routine, and it was still a necessary one. Pregnancy did seem to be a logical cause of her exhaustion, but it had yet to lessen, and Elizabeth did not think it would until after her milk stopped. Still, though, it was easier to manage now, for at least considering her exhaustion did not turn her thoughts to worry.

* * *

She and Darcy dined together in their little sitting room again that evening, and they had much to discuss, as regarded their children. The happy news of Charles's success in walking was of course first, and then Darcy informed her of his and James's conversation with Richardson, which had gone well. Darcy's one concern with the family's deciding to appear at this year's harvest feast was that they might have a dampening effect on the festivities. But Richardson had thought they would be pleased by his presence, and the family might slip away early to allow all of the tenants full enjoyment of the ale, wine, and music provided to them.

"I – I also had a conversation with George, while you were gone with James," said Elizabeth. "He asked what he was going to be, since everyone said James was to be master of Pemberley."

Darcy started. "Good God, I thought we had years before such a thing was on his mind. Elizabeth, I am so sorry I was not there to aid you in that conversation. I never would have thought – "

"Do not worry, my love. It went much easier than I thought it would. George thought it was unfair – to James. He was quite content with being able to choose what he shall do as a profession."

"I would not have expected _that_. Perhaps it is better to have such a conversation with a child his age."

"Jealousy may set in at a later age, but yes, for now we have weathered the first storm."

" _You_ have weathered the first storm."

"True. Where I believe we will need to take care is in our attentions to them – particularly yours. It is natural that you will be teaching James about the estate, but resentment may breed if it is always the two of you, and George and Charles do not have time with their father."

"You are thinking of what my mother wrote."

"I am, and of how natural it was that the two of you went off together today."

He nodded. "It is strange, I do not think often of my feelings of that time, but reading what mama wrote brought them all back. I could recall that ride, when I had thought it would be just myself and my father, and then he invited the Wickhams along. My feelings were precisely as my mother saw them. I do not want any of our sons to feel that way – nor even George Nichols."

Elizabeth reached across the table and clasped his hand. "Thank you my love. I should not even have recalled you to it – of course you would be conscious of it."

"Nay, I want you to keep recalling me to it, for it would be easy to slip into spending more time with James than the other boys, given what I must teach him about the estate."

"Then I shall," promised Elizabeth.

* * *

Darcy left at noon the next day, to pay his call upon the Duke of Devonshire. Elizabeth was deeply curious as to how the call would go, and as the hours slipped closer to dinner, she felt it must have gone well, which was reinforced by the messenger from Chatsworth that arrived, stating Mr. Darcy was staying to dine there. Darcy would not have done so unless the two men had established some manner of rapport.

He returned home late in the evening, with a pleased countenance. Elizabeth had already gone to bed, but with the intention to wait up for him unless exhaustion claimed her, and she was still waiting when he came in.

"It went very well – far better even than I had hoped," said he. "You were right that Laurence Sinclair went there to plead his case, but thankfully there was not actually a prior acquaintance between the two of them. They have some mutual acquaintance who appears to have misled the duke as to Sinclair's temper and competence. He had already been receiving bad reports from Sinclair's fellow magistrates and others in the county, and was quite startled by the man who showed up at his door demanding an audience."

"Perhaps next time he has a vacancy in the magistrancy, he shall be more circumspect."

"He has already determined how he wishes to fill the next vacancy," said Darcy, hesitantly. "He offered it to me, and I said I would accept it when the time came. It may come relatively soon – he is considering putting pressure on Sinclair to resign."

"Unless he has the same sort of leverage you do, he may not succeed. That seems the sort of thing Sinclair will be very stubborn about."

"True. I suppose there must be some process by which a magistrate can be forcibly removed from his post, but I do not know of it. We shall see where things lead. I am glad at least to be in agreement with the duke on the matter."

"You must have got on well with him, if you stayed to dine."

"Yes, we spoke of a great deal. I do not think I have ever had so long a tete-a-tete with another person before, but he was very eager to hear of my desire to be more active within the neighbourhood and county. We spoke on other things, as well. We have much in common – he inherited even greater responsibilities at a younger age than I did – although conversation is not the easiest with him. He cannot hear well, and so I was often obliged to repeat myself."

"I am glad your visit went so well. I was relieved when you did not return quickly."

He smiled. "Oh – I nearly forgot. He gave me some sort of odd fruit to bring back, for Charles to try. We spoke of you and the children."

"Were you endeavouring to convince the Bachelor Duke of the joys of married life?"

Chuckling, Darcy said, "Nay, I think that is beyond my power. I believe he merely wished to know me better. But he has a liking for this fruit – a banana, it is called. The grocers Fortnum and Mason supply him with them – although he thinks with the right sort of hothouse they might be cultivated at Chatsworth. It is surely the oddest fruit I have ever seen."

"Does it taste like a mango? Georgiana adores mangoes."

"I have no idea, and I doubt I ever shall."

"Well, we shall try it, and perhaps since _you_ bring it as a solution, it will work. Were it not for your asses' milk, I do not know what we would be giving him this week."

"We would have kept trying until we found a solution," said he. "How are you feeling? Any better?"

"I am still tired, but I am not sure that shall change until my milk stops."

He kissed her cheek. "I should let you go to sleep then. I'll get the candles."

Elizabeth slept well and deeply, as she had been since his return, and before she broke her fast had the news delivered to her by an astonished Sawyer that little Charles had eaten an entire banana that morning. Elizabeth relayed this news to her husband, who chuckled and said, "Well, I suppose that is about right that he should prefer nothing but asses' milk and rare fruit. I shall send to town for more, but things would have been a great deal easier if he had a simple penchant for cake like his brother."


	49. Part 2, Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Word came back from Jasper that the house at the Lakes was in better repair than expected and might be habitable by the Darcys if only a few maids could be sent up to give it a thorough cleaning. They were sent, and Elizabeth and her husband made plans that they should follow the day after the harvest feast.

For her own part, she was looking forward to the feast, although she felt a bit of trepidation at how the Darcys's presence would be received. The day dawned with a nearly cloudless sky, and Elizabeth awoke feeling more than her usual energy of late: her milk had stopped two days prior and it was seeming increasingly likely that Dr. Whittling's theory was correct, that there was nothing wrong with her beyond pregnancy.

The feast began in the afternoon – although the Darcys would provide candles so that the revelry could continue into the night – and it was held in the tenants's hall, the very location Darcy had come to blame for the family's beginning to absent themselves from the festivities. In the old days and the old house, the feast would have taken place in the great hall and all would have been present. But great halls had gone out of fashion, ostensibly replaced with entrance-halls and special rooms built to serve some of the purposes they once had, and once the room itself had left the family quarters, it was easy enough for the family to leave the happenings within.

Thus it was that Elizabeth, Darcy, James, and George walked into the tenants's hall that afternoon, three of them rather nervous about their reception within and James ecstatic over the amount of cake he intended to consume. The hall was filled with two long tables, chairs packed in tight along them, and at the front of the space there was a smaller table, perpendicular to the others and with four chairs behind it. Two of the chairs had cushions upon them, and the Darcys helped their sons onto these, the cushions helping the boys just barely achieve a reasonable height for eating from this table. Elizabeth sat next to them, and Darcy beside her, murmuring in her ear, "This all feels rather too medieval. I feel like I should tell them to begin the joust."

Elizabeth giggled and looked out over the long tables, where the tenants were taking their seats. Silas Metcalfe was coaxed into sitting by his mother, although the boy seemed as though he would much rather still be out in the field with his horse. At the other table, Sarah was embracing her family as they arrived; since the Kellys had occupied their farm, Elizabeth had always given her maid an extra half-day off so that she could enjoy the celebration with her family.

The food began coming out even before they were all seated, dish after dish laid down on the tables. There would not be removes in the traditional sense; instead as a dish was emptied, it would be replaced by another, until everyone had eaten their fill. Yet even when it was clear not one more dish or jug of ale could be fit onto the tables, none of the tenants made any move to eat; instead, they all stared expectantly at the Darcys's table.

"I think they want you to speak," whispered Elizabeth to her husband.

"I was afraid of that," he whispered back, although he stood, and this caused a wave of further quietude to pass over the hall. Elizabeth could see he was discomfited, but she did not think it was readily apparent to the rest of the room as he began speaking in a much louder voice: "I wish to thank you all for allowing us to partake in this year's festivities. We are grateful for the roles each of you play in Pemberley's success, and I am personally grateful, as I expect all of you are, that we have seen such a good harvest this year. We have seen good times and hard times, all of us together, and I pray we shall have naught but good times in the future."

He raised his glass to all of them, and this prompted a wave of cheering and drinking, followed by a rapid assault on the food.

"Well done, Mr. Darcy," murmured Elizabeth in his ear. Then she surveyed what had been placed upon their table, and found quite a few of her preferences thereupon, although there was still ample roast beef and cake as to make the twins quite happy. James had seemed to enjoy the event from the very beginning, and George had grown more comfortable as he whispered with his brother and ate beef and cake. The twins ate their fill and then some, as did all of the tenants, and when finally they were all full to groaning, they began rising from their chairs. The remaining food was moved over to a little side table, along with fresh jugs of ale and wine, and the tables and chairs were carried out by men growing more raucous with drink as the hired fiddler struck up a reel.

"Are you well enough for a reel, Mrs. Darcy?" asked her husband, upon seeing that the tenants were staring at them in confusion, unsure of whether they should wait for their landlord to begin the dancing.

Elizabeth felt the pain of knowing she was still not well enough to dance, still less to dance a reel, and wished desperately that she was. But she recognised readily that to attempt such a dance and tire quickly would prompt more concern than sitting it out from the beginning, and she said, "I wish that I was, but I do not think so. Let Kelly be my proxy." She looked over to where Sarah was standing with her family, tapping her foot like so many in the hall, and continued watching after Darcy left his wife with a look of concern and reluctance, approached her maid, bowed, and asked for Sarah's hand in the dance with a degree of formality that left Sarah gaping at him. She moved past her shock, however, looking to Elizabeth and upon receiving an encouraging nod from her mistress, agreeing to the dance.

They both danced well, and the rest of the tenants followed quickly after them, as well as James and George, who looked at so many adults hopping about and determined they could hop about just as well as anyone else. Elizabeth told them to keep their dancing near her so they would not impede the progress of the adults, and watched with amusement as they did so, watched with happiness the cheerful dancing of the rest of the hall – including her maid and her husband – and promised herself that next year she would be well and reel with as much spirit as anyone here.

The Darcys left shortly after that first reel, much to the twins' reluctance, for they thought it would be great fun to remain and hop about all night. They were encouraged that they must retire so as to be ready for their journey to the Lakes the next day, but as is common for children of their age, they could not comprehend the forgoing of current pleasures in favour of future ones. When coaxing did not work, sternness was required, and upon understanding their parents would brook no opposition, they glowered and agreed to leave. The Darcys had intended to slip out quietly, but their path to the door was marked with a great deal of "Thank'ee fer comin', sir," and "I'm that glad ye came, sir, ma'am," so that it took them rather longer than they had expected to leave. Elizabeth had the sense that the party would indeed grow more raucous once they left, and thought they had achieved a fine balance; the tenants had seemed pleased by the Darcys's presence, but would now get to celebrate as boisterously as they wished.

* * *

The twins, their parents had been informed, had been restless for many hours after they had left the feast, unable to bring themselves to sleep after such a singular event in their young lives. They were roused from their beds much earlier than they thought proper, sullen when they were not spoken to and cranky when they were. They made Charles, who had drank down his cup of asses's milk and ate up his banana with complaisance, seem as though he was now to be the most obedient of the Darcy children, and Elizabeth rewarded him by allowing him to ride in the post-chaise with herself and her husband, rather than the nursery carriage.

For her own part, Elizabeth had felt better that morning, and she was both relieved and pleased that she was so. Jasper's note had indicated that while the house was in good repair, the barn was in far worse shape, and so the Darcys would generally make do without horses until he could complete the repairs, although they could be hired from the local inn if needed. There would be no curricle rides for Elizabeth through the Lakes, therefore; anywhere she wished to go in the beginning of their stay would best be achieved on her own two feet. She still knew she would be frustrated by her present lack of stamina, but at least she was well enough to feel able to walk _somewhere_ , when two weeks ago she had been exhausted by the stairs.

This feeling of wellness lasted her through the first change of horses, but they were still well southeast of Buxton when she found herself suddenly overwhelmed with nausea. She had been conversing with little Charles insofar as she could, with the limited vocabulary of his age, and then all of a sudden she felt as though the motion of the carriage had caught up with her, had aroused her stomach in a most awful way.

"Stop the carriage!" she gasped. "Oh – stop the carriage."

Darcy, exceedingly alarmed by such a request, pulled down the window and bellowed out to the postillion to stop. It was well he did so, for as the horses were coming down to a walk, Elizabeth thrust Charles into her husband's arms, turned the door handle and pushed it open, losing the entirety of her breakfast upon the road.

"Papa?" asked Charles, very confused by this turn of events. He was given over to Sawyer, who had come rushing up to carry him off, soothing him that his mama was unwell right now but she would be better soon enough, and leaving Darcy free to put his whole attention into solicitude towards his wife. She determined she had nothing more to give up to the road and turned towards him; he embraced her tightly, murmuring, "It is a child, is it not? This is the confirmation."

"It is – it is another baby," murmured Elizabeth, her tears thickening her voice. Dr. Whittling's theory had been cause for hope, and now it was confirmed: her exhaustion was due to the very natural process of growing a child within herself, a child that might very well be her long-awaited girl. Darcy held her tightly after this, and it was some time before he asked if she was well enough to continue. She said that she was, and he ordered the postillion to drive on, at a slower pace.

They changed horses at Belper and then again at Disley, and as they regained the turnpike after the Ram in that village, Darcy asked, "Should you like to lay down, or even stop until later in the day? You look very unwell, my darling." Seeing that his wife saw a goodly degree of merit in the notion of lying down, he added, "You may use my lap as a pillow, if you wish."

Elizabeth laid her hand down upon one very well-muscled thigh and said, "Your lap is not a very good sort of pillow, I fear."

He took up a rug and folded it several times over, laying it down on his lap. "Is that better?"

"I suppose so." Elizabeth laid her head down upon the rug and tucked her feet up on the seat, closing her eyes and feeling his feathery touch but a moment later, brushing a curl back from her forehead. She turned her focus to the horses and road ahead, after this, for watching where she was going did seem to alleviate such illness, at least a little.

This did not last, for mercifully she was lulled to sleep somewhere past Stockport, and she slept all the way through Manchester. She awakened well beyond that burgeoning town, her first sight that of a new team's labouring hindquarters before her, beyond this the stubby pale gold of recently harvested pastures. She turned her head up to look at her husband and found herself shocked when her eyes met his. He had been weeping – weeping copiously by the looks of it – and upon Elizabeth's recognition of this, he whispered,

"I cannot lose you."

"I have managed three already," she said soothingly. "I feel much better about my chances for a fourth birth than had it been cancer."

"It will be four in a little over five years' time. It is too many – it has already borne a toll on your health."

"Which is improving, and you will of course recall that the first two came at the same time."

"This is not what I wanted for you, though, Elizabeth, to bear such a burden year after year, to face such a risk year after year."

His mentioning the risk recalled her to poor Lydia's final days, and her eyes filled with tears. They remained in silence for some minutes, while she regained her equanimity.

"After this child, I want to take measures to avoid another," he said finally, and then perhaps sensing the protest welling within his wife, he laid his hand on her cheek again, seeking to quell it. "I am not saying we should give up all of our nocturnal activities, merely that we – that we do not put the period at the end of the sentence."

Elizabeth felt the rightness of what he proposed. It would not be infallible, but it should lessen if not eliminate entirely any future pregnancies she should have. She knew what it was to grow up in a house with four siblings, and she had wanted them both to give personal attention to each of their children, which would become more difficult with each new child added to the nursery. If it was filled with a larger quantity of children, it would become natural that James received the greater share of Darcy's attention because it was necessary for his father to teach him about the estate. She expressed none of this, however; instead she endeavoured to lighten both of their moods, to show him she was in agreement. Thus, she teased him:

"What a shame, Mr. Darcy. I had always found it to be more an exclamation mark, and I regret to hear it has not been thus for you."

He trailed his fingertips along her cheek and then over her lips. "I am more reserved, you know, even when I write letters. I do not think I have ever used an exclamation mark in my life, so it was not on my mind, but I heartily accept the rightness of your correction. We shall not put the _exclamation mark_ at the end of the sentence."

Elizabeth smiled, and wished she was well enough for further teasing. But to do so on such matters was to raise expectations that they might put them into practise that evening, and she could not feel enthusiasm for such things, her health still comprised of nausea and exhaustion.

* * *

They spent the night at the Bull in Preston, and the twins emerged from that establishment much better-rested and in far better moods. Charles ate up his banana but refused the cow's milk offered to him, and Elizabeth was glad the provisioning of the Lake house had included the purchase of an additional milch donkey.

It was little more than a half day's journey on from Preston, and although Elizabeth had begun their travels lying prostrate across the seat and her husband's lap, hoping to prevent sickness before it began (her hopes in vain, for she had once again been required to have Darcy stop the carriage just past Garstang), she sat up as she saw the terrain had begun to change. She had grown accustomed to the Peaks of Derbyshire, but this, oh, this was something else entirely, and she adored it. By the time a large body of water had drawn into view – named by her husband as Windermere – she had risen to sitting and was watching all around her in eager anticipation.

That, however, was the last view of water she was to have before they arrived at the house, and she alighted the post-chaise feeling mildly disappointed that there was no lake visible. It could not be criticised otherwise; it was a nice, trim farmhouse much as she had been led to expect, large enough to comfortably contain their family and those servants indispensable to their comforts. James and George tumbled out of the nursery carriage and then ran inside, eager to explore and followed by a more cautious George Nichols. The house they entered was but a fraction of the size of their usual home: the front door opened into the kitchen, of all places; beyond it was a small scullery and a larger bedroom, beside it a sort of parlour. The children ran about, exploring, but their parents' pace was much slower, for almost from the point of their setting foot inside the house, Elizabeth had sensed her husband was in a very strange mood. It could hardly be otherwise, she thought, for him to return to a place he had not been to in almost twenty years.

He stepped into the parlour, and Elizabeth followed him. It was filled with aged items of furniture that had outworn their life at Pemberley, and similarly old-fashioned in its setup, being one of those rooms that should be used for dining and other purposes as required, the Pembroke table and chairs currently pushed against the wall in favour of a sofa and two chairs before the fireplace. Darcy's interest was in none of these, however, and instead in the one bit of architectural ambition that had been allowed the room: a pair of built-in bookcases surrounding the fireplace. They were filled, likely with the Darcys's reading preferences from some decades ago (Elizabeth had a strong suspicion that yet another set of _Sir Charles Grandison_ was to be found amongst the collection). But Darcy did not go for any of the books, and instead began pulling slipcases and boxes from one of the lower shelves, gazing at the titles printed on each of them.

"Lord, I had entirely forgotten about these," said he.

Elizabeth drew closer and found he was looking through a set of old games.

"Ah – here it is! This one was my favourite," said he, holding up the slipcase for _The Combat with the Giant, A New Invented and Entertaining Game_. "It will be too complicated for the children at present, I think, but there are plenty more here they shall enjoy."

"I had not thought you Darcys for game-players," said Elizabeth.

"We were many things here that we were not anywhere else," he replied.

Elizabeth recognised the rightness of what he said, recalling Lady Anne's writings about the Lake house. Now, finally seeing the place Anne had written so fondly about, Elizabeth found herself wishing that the Darcys could have allowed more of their Lake house selves to spread, at least to Pemberley. Perhaps they could, in this generation.

The children had already gone upstairs and their parents followed, to a storey with two small bedrooms and a nursery on one side, and two larger bedrooms and a sitting room on the other. James, George, and George were quite delighted to learn that the beds in the nursery were bunk beds, and that since there were three sets of bunk beds – two pre-existing, and another newly built by an optimistic Jasper, they were all free to take the desirable top bunk.

Their parents took a quick look over their own room, a cosy space with a window seat and an old four-poster bed, but then Mr. Darcy took his wife's hand and said, "If you are not too tired, the best features of the landscape here are less than a mile's walk."

"I can certainly manage a mile," stated Elizabeth.

He led her out of the house and up a long inclining path, assisting her across a small stream just before they came upon a little lake of exquisite beauty. If a painter had dared to imagine a picturesque scene he could not have managed any better than what nature had provided, the robust evergreen trees on the far side of the lake, framing the mountain well beyond them.

"Oh – it's beautiful," gasped Elizabeth.

"It is merely the first remove," stated her husband, although he waited until she had looked her fill before offering his arm so they could walk on together. They did so, up an inclining path along which a very strange-looking flock of sheep were grazing, until they crested the hill and Elizabeth drew her hand to her breast, letting out a long, tremulous breath. Before her was another little lake – a tarn, she recalled, from Lady Anne's journals – at this impossible elevation, a valley and then a range of peaks beyond it. The scene was so perfect it brought tears to her eyes, and she reached over and clasped Darcy's hand out of sheer desire to experience such a scene with him. He had known it was here, of course, but he readily returned her grip.

She was glad, then, that the house had been placed where it was. This scene was meant to be viewed without interruption, meant to be pristine nature, unaltered by the contrived stones and bricks of man, nor even the deliberate adjustments of Repton or Brown. Even living so near to the Peaks as she did now, Elizabeth had never seen a sight that affected her so completely, had never come upon a vista she felt she could gaze on forever and still not have her fill. She tightened her grip on Darcy's hand and they stood there: silent, appreciative, loving.


	50. Part 2, Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Elizabeth's love for the Lake District was formed in those sights she had seen on her first day there, and it grew still more in the Darcys's first week at the house. The resumption of her morning illness meant they were required to save their activity for the afternoons, and so in the mornings the boys took their lessons from Miss Fischer and Darcy managed his correspondence or read. They made the most of those afternoons, though, taking the boys for picnics by the nearest tarn, which generally ended in all of them, save Charles, removing shoes and stockings and stomping about in the water. The children thought this the greatest fun imaginable and did not care that the water was cold.

"'Tis a shame we did not come here in the height of summer," said Darcy, watching them. "They might have learned how to swim."

"You know how to swim?" asked Elizabeth. "Did your father teach you?"

"Nay, I do not believe he knew how. Andrew and Edward and I taught ourselves one summer. I cannot say we were particularly good at it, but we could get across this lake and back."

His countenance took on that look of nostalgia again. It held that look frequently, although it was clearly fond nostalgia; it was plainly visible when Darcy and Elizabeth walked down to see the nearest village, Near Sawrey, and Esthwaite Water beside it. When Elizabeth pronounced herself well enough to manage the two-mile walk to Hawkshead, a more substantial but still very pretty village, his countenance was formed more of relief at her improving health than nostalgia, however. They strolled about and took tea at the Red Lion, but Elizabeth found herself impatient to see more of the natural features of the area, and was more pleased by the walk back along the opposite bank of Esthwaite Water. She understood how very much of her stamina had been lost while she had been unwell, and felt a great degree of impatience to return to what she had been. She wished to walk down to Windermere, to walk around to Coniston Water, and to walk to the top of Latterbarrow, which the waiter at the Red Lion had said would provide the most remarkable views. Yet she understood she was not ready for any of these things, and it frustrated her.

The return of her stamina was not helped by the morning when she woke and heard the telltale sound of rain upon the window. It was not a light rain, and it was plain by the look of the sky that it should continue on for the remainder of the day. After she had surrendered the contents of her stomach to the basin that had been designated for such purposes, she had commented upon it to Darcy and received his somewhat sheepish reply that it did tend to rain here in the Lakes more than anywhere else he had ever been in England.

In the days of rain that followed, however, Elizabeth came to understand that there was a different sort of appeal to rainy days, here at the little house. They spent their afternoons in the parlour, playing The New Game of Human Life with the older boys while Charles pottered about. They spent the early evenings reading in that same parlour, and soon enough the older boys and Miss Fischer had begun to join them there for the same purpose. It was George Darcy who had led the way in this, slipping out of the nursery that first rainy evening and coming down to the parlour with his book in his hand – much more easily done in a house of this size.

"May I read with you, mama and papa?" had come his soft little voice in the doorway, a voice perfectly designed to melt his mother's heart.

"Of course you may, darling George," said Elizabeth.

He laid his book down upon one of the chairs and then hoisted himself up onto the seat. Making plain that he had come for his stated purpose – to read – he opened his book and began mouthing the words within. Browning appeared in the doorway, having gone in search of the nursery's wayward child, and Elizabeth gestured with her hand that George should be left where he was. Browning bobbed a little curtsey and left to go back upstairs, and still George read on, until he finally said,

"What's ex-tra-ord-in-ary mean?"

"It means very special," said Darcy.

George nodded, and resumed his reading.

George's presence in the parlour meant he was the first of the children to experience that favourite delight of Lady Anne's that Elizabeth had been anticipating: a peat fire on a chilly evening. The dampness brought on by the rain had made it just cool enough to justify a fire's being lit, and the scullery maid came in with a bucket containing a bit of wood kindling and several larger peat logs, and proceeded to start a fire that was soon enough filling the room with a rich, earthy scent.

George paid the fire little attention – he was clearly determined to progress through his book. His concentration was only broken when Sawyer knocked and entered, and noted it was his bedtime. George was not pleased by this but he went obediently, clutching his book to his chest.

"Could that dear little child be any more _your_ son?" asked Elizabeth.

Darcy chuckled, but his countenance had taken on that nostalgic cast again. "He could not. I used to sit and read with my parents – very often in that exact chair."

He drew closer to Elizabeth on the sofa, wrapping his arms about her, and she slipped her marker into _The Bride of Lammermoor_ and set it down, sighing and leaning back against him. Was there anything more lovely, she wondered, than being held by a handsome man on a chilly, rainy night before such a fire? She turned her head back towards him, inviting him to kiss her, an invitation he readily took. It was a chaste kiss, quite appropriate since the Darcys had not engaged in marital relations while Elizabeth had been too unwell to contemplate such intimacy. She was not too unwell at present, however, and when his mouth drew back from hers, she brought her hand up to his cheek, encouraging him to kiss her again, more deeply this time. For some time, his every attempt to draw away from intimacy was met with her efforts to deepen it, until finally he said, "My darling, any more and I shall want far, far more than I would ask of you while you are unwell."

"I am feeling well enough," Elizabeth breathed, "and we shall have only so many more opportunities to put the exclamation mark at the end of the sentence."

He needed no further invitation than this to kiss her far more fervently, and they retreated upstairs to their bedchamber, restoring the intimacy to their marriage in a slow, sensual manner. He held her close, after they were finished, and they laid there in the still night, listening to the crackling of the fire there, Elizabeth feeling a deeper peace than she had known in a very long while.

* * *

Peace did not mean complete happiness, although there were happy moments, within the little house and outside it. Darcy had been right that it was easier to mourn Lydia here, easier to have time to grieve, to think, to reflect on her sister's brief life. It became still easier when a parcel arrived from Derby, containing a mourning brooch made with Lydia's hair. Elizabeth had been reluctant to commission such a piece, but her concerns had been assuaged when Sarah said she would give no name but her own, in writing the directions, and with it addressed to the lake house, the jeweller would hardly think to connect it to the Darcys. Even if it was somehow traced back to the Darcys, their neighbourhood had known two other deaths recently, and it might just as easily be thought to be associated with Mrs. Nichols, or to be a commission on the dowager Mrs. Sinclair's behalf.

Elizabeth had a good, long cry, upon opening the parcel and finding the little whorl of hair encased in glass and surrounded by garnets. It gave Lydia's passing a certain finality that nothing else had done, and Elizabeth wore it every day, glancing down at it occasionally while she was out walking, or reading, or playing games with the children. She thought about Lydia, thought about how Lydia might have changed if she had lived; how she had already changed, to flee Wickham and intend to devote herself to motherhood. It still saddened Elizabeth deeply to think of such things, but as the days passed she began to feel peace in this, as well, although the sight of the brooch still brought tears to her eyes more often than it did not.


	51. Part 2, Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

It was a sad, strange party Georgiana had brought home with her to Stanton Hall. The Stantons endeavoured to give them privacy to mourn, but as Stanton Hall was not nearly so large as Pemberley, it was impossible to do so entirely.

Mr. Bennet was most often to be encountered in the library, with some volume from the Stantons's growing collection open upon his lap. A few minutes of observation, however, would show that he turned the pages rarely, if at all, and every once and a while he would take a deep breath and emit a troubled sigh. Captain Ramsey was most often with his wife and the baby, and Georgiana sought them out – particularly Catherine – with intent, wishing to provide the support a young mother required, the encouragement that Catherine was doing all as she ought. Georgiana gave this encouragement even when she could not feel it was entirely accurate – there was an awkwardness to the way Catherine held the child, and a seeming panic every time something occurred and Catherine did not know what to do. Georgiana thought she understood the crux of Catherine's hesitance, her lack of confidence: she felt somehow that because she was not little Cate's mother by birth, she was not qualified, she lacked a maternal instinct that should somehow have made her understand how to care for the child. In vain did Georgiana tell her – many times over – that no mother knew such instincts beyond the instinct to love, that when Caroline had been born, Georgiana had been aided with a great deal of assistance and a great deal of explanation from her maid as to what she should do.

In this she was aided by Mrs. Bennet, who seconded Georgiana's statement and told her own tales of Jane's birth, of being confused as to what to do almost from the moment of Jane's being placed into her arms, confusion that had turned into anxiety, which was only alleviated by Jane's being given over to the wet nurse. Mrs. Bennet had gone to see her every day, and under the tutelage of that woman had come to feel more comfortable in holding her daughter, caring for her daughter, so that upon Jane's being weaned, Mrs. Bennet was much better placed to be her mother.

Of all of them, Mrs. Bennet was the member of the household that saddened Georgiana the most. With Catherine and Cate she was every bit the loving, supportive mother and grandmother that both of them needed at such a time. Georgiana admired her fortitude, and yet it was inevitable that at times this fortitude cracked, and it was not uncommon to be going through the house and understand that Mrs. Bennet had found as quiet a corner as was available to her when she had been overcome with grief, to find her doubled over with her handkerchief pressed tight against her eyes, sobbing and murmuring about poor Lydia, how much she missed her poor baby girl.

Witnessing such moments – even though she rushed on to where she had been going, affording Mrs. Bennet what privacy she could – could not but weigh upon Georgiana's heart, although she could not be as grief-stricken as her housemates. And out of all of them, she found Matthew was the one faring the best; his nightmares had not returned and he had met Lydia but once in his life; although he felt the tragedy of her death, he could not mourn her so deeply as the others. He threw his time entirely into the alterations to the Georgiana, riding down to Portsmouth every day to see how John Taylor and his men were getting on with the project. It would be the last one the carpenter would work on before the Taylors took over the lease on the inn, and Georgiana was not certain whether he would be able to complete the work before that time, although he had thrown himself into the project with his usual zeal. She had given Moll additional time off to make up for it and designated spaces within the house and stables that the Taylors could use for storage, which slowly began to fill with glassware, plates, linens, furniture, and other items that would be needed – they did not expect Ned Tilley to leave anything belonging to him, and if he did, that it should be in usable condition.

It was on the topic of the inn that Moll addressed her employer one evening, helping Georgiana into her dressing-gown, biting her lip and finally saying, "Milady, I wanted to ask ye something, if'n ye don't mind."

"Of course, Moll, ask what you wish."

"Well, I was wonderin' what your plans were, for Mrs. Carroll an' Priscilla – was you intending to keep Mrs. Carroll on as cook once the work on the ship is done?"

"If she wishes to stay on, I would be very glad to have her," said Georgiana. "That is her choice, however, and it is very important that it be her choice."

Moll nodded. "I was hopin' you'd say that, milady. You see, Taylor and the men have been right enjoyin' her cookin', while they've been workin', an' yesterday he asked her if maybe she'd rather have employment on land, fer once the work is done and ye and the captain be wantin' to sail to places, it's maybe not the best life for a woman with a daughter her age and – well – we really want her for our cook at the inn. If we can bring her on, I'm sure our food'd be the best on t'whole Sou'hampton road, an' that's just what we need if we're to turn the inn around."

"I had not thought about her for the inn, but you are quite right, and I would be glad to lose her to such a role. We shouldn't have any difficulty finding a naval cook in Portsmouth – or perhaps we should just take Rahul with us when we travel, if he is amenable. He was quite adept at cooking on the ship on the journey back from India."

"I'm that glad you say so, milady. I wouldn't want ye to be thinkin' we was poachin' your cook," said Moll. "But the trouble is when Taylor approached her, Mrs. Carroll said she won't be disloyal to ye, bein' it was your family that freed her."

"It was never my intent that she feel herself to be tied to us," said Georgiana. "I want for her to have complete freedom to pursue the life she wants."

"I know that, milady, but I think loyalty can be the strongest tie – stronger than any law. I don't think as I'd ever leave your service but for the chance to work for ye in a different way, and I'm certain Sarah won't never leave the Darcys. She was in a very bad place, before she came to Mr. Darcy's employ, and she's that grateful, I'm sure of it, even beyond how good Mrs. Darcy is to her."

Moll bit her lip again, seeming to realise she had said too much. Georgiana had been a Darcy at the time of Sarah Kelly's joining the household, but a new scullery maid would not have merited her notice, and she had hardly been aware of Sarah's existence until she had risen in the household to the point of being able to dress Georgiana, on her former maid's half-days off.

"Would it help if I spoke to Mrs. Carroll?" asked Georgiana, seeking to alleviate Moll's discomfiture.

"Aye, I believe it would, milady."

"Well then I shall," stated Georgiana.

She did so the next day, riding down alongside Matthew to the quay where the ship was moored. It was immediately clear that Taylor and his men were working on far more than the cabins below, for the masts and a goodly portion of the upper rigging had also been removed, and two men could be seen pounding oakum into the deck seams. Georgiana and Matthew gave them a wide berth as they went down the aft companion-ladder, into a space that was beginning to form according to the plans Georgiana and Matthew had sketched out.

Mrs. Carroll and her daughter had been berthing in the cabin designated for female servants, but neither of them were there, and Georgiana eventually found them in the makeshift pantry, looking over the ship's present supplies. Mrs. Carroll curtseyed upon seeing her employer, and looked at Georgiana expectantly.

"Good morning, Mrs. Carroll," said Georgiana. "I understand the Taylors have approached you, regarding employment at their inn, and I wished to say that I do not want you to feel yourself required to stay with my family – I wish for you to be free to live your own life as you wish – but I would be very pleased if you _choose_ to serve us in any capacity, whether that is staying on as cook on this ship or taking a position at the inn. Captain Stanton and I intend to be travelling often, and you may find the inn a more stable place for your daughter to grow up."

Mrs. Carroll nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "Thankee, milady, but if you'll still have me I'd stay here. The inn might be better, but I won't take the chance. For the first time in my life I'm _safe_. No-one hurts me or my girl. Might be that way at the inn, too, might not. I ain't gonna leave a safe place to find out."

"I understand, but if it is safety you fear leaving, we can find ways to make things less risky. We do not strictly need a cook while the ship is docked – the workers and then eventually the seamen could be given board wages. I believe there shall come a point where we will need to do so anyway – they will need to remove the stove, to work on this part of the ship. You could try the inn for a few months and if you and Priscilla are not comfortable there, you could return to your duties on the ship. Even if you wish to try it for a year, one of my cooks has worked on a ship before, and I believe he would be willing to do so again."

"Oh." Mrs. Carroll appeared contemplative for some minutes and then said, "If you're as willin' to let me try it for a few months an' I can still come back if it's not good for us, I'd – I'd be glad'a tryin' it, my lady."

"Then let us plan on that," said Georgiana. "I shall speak to Mrs. Taylor – I am sure she will be amenable. Mrs. Carroll, there is something else I wished to ask you about – Priscilla's father, would you wish for us to try to find him? To purchase him and free him so you could be reunited as a family? Oh – but I should have thought – perhaps Priscilla's father is not for sale – not someone you would ever wish to see again. If so, I am sorry to have asked."

Mrs. Carroll shook her head. "If you'dve asked my mamma, she'd say she never wanted to see my father again. But I love Priscilla's father. Ben Carroll, is his name. He isn't my husband from in a church. We wasn't allowed that," she said, laying her hand over her heart. "But he's my husband here."

"What happened to him?"

"He was sold, my lady – place about twenty miles away from me and Priscilla. I still saw him e'ery once and again, 'till he ran. I don't know if he made it safe, but they ne'er brought him back." Her eyes filled with tears. "I hope he did – oh, how I hope he did. It'd mean all three of us is safe, now. But you can't be tryin' to find Ben – he wouldn't let hi'self be found."

"Of course. I share your hope, that he made it to safety. Are – do you have any other children, still in America?"

"None that lived, my lady. Jus' me and Priscilla."

Georgiana thanked Mrs. Carroll, and went back up the companion-ladder, contemplating the notion of safety. She had known it all her life, had known it so well through her girlhood that the notion that people could be unsafe, that situations could be unsafe, had been alien to her, had burst in upon her mind in a sudden, shocking manner when Fitzwilliam had made her understand George Wickham's intentions and character, had informed her of the life she had nearly suffered. She had been rattled in the months that followed, but then ultimately had returned to safety under the guardianship of a brother and then a husband she trusted thoroughly, even if they did occasionally have difficult times. Aside from those awful moments when George Wickham had returned to her life, the biggest threat to her safety had been childbirth, and she thought with gratitude of how Matthew had helped her come through it, gratitude towards the people in her life who had devoted so much effort to making her feel safe. And she thought with sympathy towards Mrs. Carroll, who had likely never known a day of it since she had been born, until Lord Stretford and his niece had happened to go to that auction. Tearily, she thought of how many other women there must be, just like Mrs. Carroll, women who had not been granted this reprieve. They had changed fourteen lives, but it was not enough.

* * *

Georgiana had read her mother's journals during the journey back to Portsmouth and had continued reading them in the evenings. She had sympathised deeply with her mother's fraught emotions as Mr. Darcy – how strange it was to think of _papa_ as such to her mother! – had grown cold in his manners towards Lady Anne during the journey out to Cornwall, and continued thus in the beginning of the house party. Georgiana's tender heart would have adored this romance even if it had been two strangers, but to know it was her mother and father gave the story far greater poignancy, and she sighed as she reached the moment where her father had taken her mother's arm up on the windy cliff. She had been reading of this in the drawing-room, but a party comprised of such people in mourning were not apt to linger in that space, and so she took the journal to bed with her, wishing to read until she could see her parents to some resolution.

Of course she knew they had married, but Georgiana was desperately curious to understand _how_. With an even more tender heart, she read of her mother's willingness to sacrifice her own happiness on Lady Ellen's behalf, all the while unaware of where that lady's heart truly laid. Then she read with exquisite happiness her mother's coming to understand it was Andrew – now Lord Brandon – that Lady Ellen had proposed to, and sighed happily as this brought her parents to confessing their love for one another.

"You have just read something very happy, have you not?" asked Matthew, who was reading a far more dull pamphlet from the hydrography office.

"I have – I have finally got to the point where my parents confessed their love to each other," said Georgiana, her tone soft; she was deeply sensitive to the fact that his parents' marriage had been very different from that of Lady Anne and George Darcy.

But Matthew smiled and said, "I am glad they were such a love match – it makes me feel more hopeful that they would have endorsed our marriage, had they lived."

"Oh I am sure they would have. My mother is such a romantic – I had no notion of it. I think she would have struggled to accept my travelling about so much, though. I do not think she would have enjoyed it at all, were it her to be doing so; I am coming to understand in what ways we are similar and in what ways we are very different."

"I am glad you are able to do so – to know more of your mother."

"It is strange: I almost feel as though I know the woman in these journals far better than the glimpses of the flesh-and-blood mother I can recall."

He smiled again and returned his attention to his pamphlet. Georgiana returned hers to the journal and soon enough had her confirmation that – as she had suspected – it had been her aunt Catherine who had attempted to interfere with the eventual Darcys's courtship. It was very badly done, she thought, very awful to think her aunt so caught up in her own notions of what was right in society's eyes that she could not condone Lady Anne's marriage to a good man with a successful estate. Georgiana wondered if perhaps jealousy had played a part – perhaps deep down Lady Catherine _had_ wanted to fall in love as her sister and brother had done, and had been frustrated to see her sister on the verge of making a love match in her first season.

Georgiana read on, until she reached a passage she found herself sighing over again, in adoration:

" _I asked him how he always seemed to know when I was distressed or discomfited, and always knew just what to say. He said he could not explain it, but nearly since the moment of our meeting, he had felt himself particularly attuned to me, and had found himself desirous of making me happy and acting as my protector. He said I was like a delicate rosebud who would bloom beautifully, if just given a chance, and he wanted to shelter me from the wind and the rain so that I could. O! has anything ever been so beautifully said? Has there ever been such a wonderful promise for a man to make to his betrothed?"_

Matthew asked her what she had enjoyed so much and she read the passage to him, sighing again. He appeared contemplative and then said, "That is how I felt of you, when I first met you, although a sailor could never say it so well – _a delicate rosebud who would bloom beautifully, if just given a chance_. Your father said it beautifully."

"He did say it beautifully, and I feel the similarities," said Georgiana, recalling what she had thought about earlier that day, of safety and protection. Matthew, too, had known very little of either as a child, until Admiral Russell – Captain Russell in those days – had taken him on.

"I am fortunate I was wrong, however," said Matthew, gazing at her fondly. "You looked a rosebud on the outside – and you still do, my dearest – but inside, you are all heart of oak. I have not protected you as I had wished to – I have led you a far more difficult life than I had intended – but every time it has been asked of you, you have been strong enough for our whole family, and for that you have both my deepest gratitude and love."

"You are wrong, Matthew – a sailor _can_ say it very well," whispered Georgiana, rising up to kiss him. He was eager to deepen the kiss, and it was not long before both the journal and the pamphlet were set aside for the night.


	52. Part 2, Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

"No, kitties, you's not s'powssed to go in the paw-lor!" exclaimed Marianne, scampering into that room after her little charges.

Mary had been right, that the creatures would cause a degree of upheaval in their house, but as they had greatly eased Marianne's return to the place where she had been harmed, Mary could never dislike them for it. They had come dashing into the parlour where she sat sewing, the tabby chasing the piebald, and began wrestling and growling on the carpet there.

The kittens, a boy and girl, had been named Beauty and Prince by Marianne; Mary was not keen on her daughter's enthusiasm for fairy-tales, but the child had fallen in love with them at Pemberley and so her mother had been required to mix in a portion of them with the more morally useful things she read to her daughter. Given the kittens had been brought into the house as Marianne's pets, the child had determined to take responsibility for them, which was rather impossible when it came to kittens. They did what they wanted, when they wanted, although fortunately they had easily enough determined that using the box of ashes in the kitchen was something they wanted to do.

Leaving the parlour, however, was not something they wanted to do. Marianne reasoned with them that they should go back up to the nursery, but this was not effective, and she had learned early on that inserting herself into such play was only to get her scratched. Therefore she scrunched up her face in frustration, left the parlour, and returned a few minutes later with a length of ribbon. This proved to be an effective lure for the kittens, and they followed after her, attempting to pounce on the end of the ribbon as she led them up the stairs.

"Clever girl," murmured Mary, in a tone of motherly pride. She returned to her sewing; it seemed she was always sewing these days, between the items for the poor basket and ensuring Marianne had sufficient frocks for her growing body. Mary was at her work for perhaps a quarter-hour when she felt that strange tickling within herself, and dropped her work upon her lap. She laid her hand on her belly and emitted one shocked, happy sob, sitting there for some minutes in relief as she felt the movements of her nascent baby. Then she rose and went to knock on the door to David's study.

He bade her to come in and while she had been intending to tell him immediately of what had just happened, the look upon his countenance was such as to give her pause.

"Lord Stretford wrote to me. My father has found a place as the leader of an Evangelical church in Manchester – apparently the incumbent recently died."

"That is good, is it not? He shall have employment again, and I think his views much closer to the Evangelicals's than any other faith."

"'Tis true, but it is a great deal closer than I would have liked. My uncle did not have many connexions in dissenting churches that could help, but Lady Anglesey's family has many ties in Manchester – it appears it was her father, who arranged this."

"Perhaps it is better that he is so close," said Mary. "If you do wish to see him, you could do so without needing to stay overnight, and without his ever attempting to come and stay here."

"I had not thought of it in that way," said he. "But I cannot say that I wish to see him again, and I promise you that he knows very well that he shall not be allowed to stay under this roof, nor to see Marianne again. She has one amiable grandfather – let that be enough."

Mary had never thought of Mr. Bennet as amiable, but when compared to Mr. Stanton he could easily be described as such.

"There was more, in my uncle's letter," said David. "My father also intends to publish a book on his religious views. He has been spending a great deal of his time in town on the writing of it."

Mary scowled. It was bad enough that Mr. Stanton should be espousing his religious views to a congregation open to hearing them; for him to publish a book, though, seemed to her an insult.

"David, I think _you_ ought to publish your sermons," said she. "In truth I do not know why you have not done so already, for I have read numerous volumes of sermons by others that are not nearly so good as yours."

"I think you know why I have not," David replied. "I had no desire to receive a lecture from my father, either written or oral, on the flaws in my sermons."

"So instead the world should hear his views and not yours, which are highly popular not only within your own parish and those nearby, but also on naval ships – Georgiana told me, of Matthew's reading your sermons and how popular they have been. It is not right that the greater world is deprived of them, David. Particularly if instead it receives a batch of your father's holier-than-thou nonsense."

Mary stared at him until he dropped his gaze. "I have – I have sometimes thought of publishing, but – do you truly think there would be appetite, if I did so?"

"I most certainly do, and in truth I think it is your moral duty to do so. You know how many rectors and vicars and curates will not write their own sermons, and read instead from those of others – if you can improve upon what they read to their congregations, is it not necessary to do so?"

"I had not thought of it in that way, Mary. It is a compelling argument."

"One I hope you will listen to. I would like to see your influence spread farther – not as a prideful wife, but as a Christian woman who has benefitted from your words and would like to see them spread more broadly."

He rose from his place behind the desk and went to her, taking up her hand and kissing it. "I am grateful for your confidence in me, Mary, for your enduring support."

Mary, unwilling to let up on what she had been pressing for, laid her hand upon his arm. "You will pursue publishing your sermons?"

"I will," said he. "I think, though, that you came in here for some other purpose, one I have distracted you from."

"Oh – yes," said Mary, grinning broadly. "The baby – when I was in the parlour – the baby quickened."

"Thank God – oh thank God," said he. "My prayers have been answered, and I will wish to give a prayer of thanksgiving, but first let me hold you, Mary – first let me hold you and be grateful."


	53. Part 2, Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Elizabeth did regain her stamina, in the month that followed the Darcys's arrival. The boys lacked the patience for longer walks, but she and Darcy enjoyed all of the walks she had wished to take and a great many more. The scenery of the Lakes was always delightful and often astonishing, and the more she saw, the more she adored.

Still, although she wished to continue with some walks, she was grateful when word came from Jasper that the barn was near enough to completion that the horses and ponies could be sent for. The excitement of the boys, when Gannet, Flora, Cloud, Oberon, Acorn, and a team of carriage horses came trotting past the front of the house was so great, they began pleading immediately to go to the barn and see them. Their parents were amenable to this and led them thither.

The barn was a vast old medieval cruck structure, with a roof of local slate. Jemmy Brown was up upon that roof, hammering in a piece of slate; he noticed the Darcys and nodded his head as deeply as he could without upsetting his place upon the roof.

"Good worker, that lad," said Jasper, who had come out to greet them. "Ain't a'feared of nothin' – did much 'a that roof. I'm that glad you s'gested him, sir."

"And I am glad to hear he has done so well," said Darcy. "It puts me to mind that you shall need some assistance, now that we have this house to be maintained as well. I wonder if it might be useful to you, to hire him on permanently. We would consider him a hall boy so far as position – it would not be a formal apprenticeship, given you are under our employ – but you would have exclusive use of his time, and when his skills are sufficient we could create a more formal position, of under-carpenter."

"I'd be that glad fer the help, sir," said Jasper, bowing.

"You may make the offer to him, when he comes back down," Darcy replied.

He and his wife walked on towards the barn, the children following behind them, and when they were past Jasper's earshot, she reached down and clasped his hand and murmured, "This was your plan all along, was it not?"

"I would not say it was a plan. Rather it was a possibility I hoped for, and now one it seems I have achieved. It was up to Jemmy to prove himself capable."

The boys had run ahead of them into the barn, and hand-in-hand their parents followed. This was the first time Elizabeth had been inside the barn and she found it beautiful, the high arching beams overhead, the fresh plaster gleaming on the walls. It was more than large enough for all of its new charges, and the boys went running up to the ponies, patting their noses and producing carrots they had begged from Mrs. Liddell.

Mrs. Liddell and Mr. Liddell were the biggest change to come about in the house. The Darcys had posted notices in Hawkshead, Coniston, and Ambleside seeking a married couple to run the house, as had been the arrangement in the previous generation. Elizabeth had feared it would take a goodly amount of time to find such a pair – the house was not of a size where an unmarried woman and man could be hired independent of each other – and had been quite delighted when the Liddells had come to call. They had been farmers near Coniston, Mrs. Liddell managing her own home of similar size and Mr. Liddell working his fields; they had one son who had gone off to work in a manufactory rather than continuing in the family line. For some years, they had been speaking of giving up the farm, but they still required some income, and managing this house had seemed to them the perfect solution. They did not have characters from former employers as would have been normal for servants, but they brought with them letters from their landlord and other farmers in their neighbourhood, all attesting to their good character, and thus far they had proven the letters correct.

The one flaw between them was that Mrs. Liddell was not a good cook – she could bake a somewhat edible loaf of bread, manage a _very_ simple stew, and roast a joint with reasonable success, but nothing beyond these. The Darcys did not mind, however; they could continue to bring an under-cook from Pemberley with them when they visited, and when the Darcys were away Mrs. Liddell could at least manage sustenance for herself and Mr. Liddell. So far as the boys were concerned, Mrs. Liddell could do no wrong, for she freely gave them anything they wanted from the kitchen, regardless of whether she had made it. Charles, in particular, was absolutely charmed by her grandmotherly nature, so very much so that he had finally been coaxed beyond asses' milk and bananas, and readily ate her porridge, which no other person in the house could stomach aside from Mr. Liddell. This had prompted Darcy to drily remark that in all their endeavours to get Charles to try various foods, they had never considered that his palate might tend towards preferring the singularly awful. Charles, as his father had murmured this in his mother's ear, had said nothing, merely grinning with what teeth he possessed towards Mrs. Liddell, and then shovelling another spoonful into his mouth under her encouragement.

* * *

The horses and ponies required rest, that first day of their arrival, but the boys were promised a ride the following afternoon, for Elizabeth was still suffering from morning illness. She decided she should pass her nauseous morning by writing a letter to Jane in the little sitting-room upstairs. The secretaire there was a fine object, one of the newest pieces of furniture within the house, although still plainly from the previous century. The glass doors on the upper part encased still more books and other objects; it had a fall front for writing, which when opened revealed various little shelves and drawers; and below was a set of three larger drawers.

It was the larger drawers Elizabeth was presently investigating, for she had run out of paper and was of the hopes that more might be found within. Although she supposed they could ride through Hawkshead and purchase some that afternoon, she would much rather finish her letter and post it during their ride. She tried the first two drawers and discovered a large quantity of quills, bags of pounce, coaching inn bills, a broken teacup, and any other manner of detritus, but no paper. So she made to open the bottom drawer, but found it was quite stuck when she pulled on the handle. A subsequent pull loosened it a little, and proved something within was causing the resistance, and a third and then fourth tug finally made it give way. The drawer opened, a crumpled letter wobbling on top of the other items in the drawer. There was indeed a stack of paper, but Elizabeth picked up the letter first.

It was addressed to George Darcy, and such had become Elizabeth's familiarity with the prior generation's life that she had no scruples in reading it. Those would come later, once she began to comprehend the contents:

" _September 22, 1772_

" _Darce,_

" _I had word that Lady K was delivered successfully of a daughter last week, and upon receiving this I set out to visit and arrange matters. Both mother and child are well, and Lady K is eager to return to society, although it is likely to be some weeks before she is well enough to consider doing so and it may be much longer still before her husband is willing to have her back. She gave me to understand this was not the first such incident, and I informed her firmly that it would be the last I had any involvement in._

" _She had planned to give the baby her own Christian name but I made clear to her that this would be unacceptable, and so she has settled upon Madeline. I am pleased with these Robinsons who are to take her until she is old enough for school – they are responsible, businesslike people – I do not anticipate their having difficulty giving her up for the second payment when the time comes, but I believe they shall give her the proper care until then."_

Elizabeth exhaled, upon reading that these Robinsons were to take the child, for she had felt a coldness settle in her stomach upon reading the name Madeline. Her aunt had been Madeline Newton, however, not Madeline Robinson, before her marriage. Whoever this natural child was, she had not grown up to be Elizabeth's aunt. But she had most likely been fathered by one of the men involved in this correspondence, although some quick mathematics regarding the date told Elizabeth that it was most likely not the previous Mr. Darcy, who had been fifteen or sixteen years of age at the time. She read on:

" _I also have confidence in their discretion, although of course two thousand pounds buys a goodly degree of silence. I feel it very likely that the plan can be executed fully and the child eventually brought to respectability, so long as I do not aim too high. I remain,"_

" _Yr. most humble and diligent servant,"_

" _SINCLAIR"_

"Oh goodness," stated Elizabeth. The previous Mr. Sinclair had only been a few years older than Mr. Darcy, so he was hardly a better candidate to be the father of this _Madeline_ , but then Elizabeth supposed he was old enough to be in university, and might have sowed his wild oats in his first year there. It was strange to think of old Mr. Sinclair as being that young, of having an affair with this Lady K.

Darcy had the misfortune to walk in at that moment, and found his wife looking startled and red-faced at him. "Elizabeth, what is the matter?"

"I was looking for paper and there was this – letter – in the bottom drawer," said she, giving it over to him.

"Good God," he said almost immediately, and then he read on. "I never would have thought Sinclair to be the sort of man to have a – a by-blow. He was full young when it happened, though – I suppose any man can have a youthful mistake, and at least he did the proper thing and saw to the child's care. He had not even married his first wife yet, so it was not even adultery – on _his_ side, at least."

"I am sorry to have discovered this. He was a good friend to both of us, and I do not wish to think less of him for knowing it."

"I do not think we should. He did take responsibility for the child – you would be grieved to learn how many men do not – and he is still the same man we knew before. You said it very well when you said we can love people for their good characteristics, even while understanding they have flaws, sometimes very significant ones. This is just one more flaw, and I believe he became a better person as he matured. He was young when this happened, and young when he married his first wife. Perhaps wisdom truly does come with maturity."

"You had no need of such maturity – you took on so many responsibilities at such a young age, and you have always acted honourably."

"Save when I convinced an entire neighbourhood that I was proud and above my company by insulting the woman who proved to be the love of my life at a public assembly."

Elizabeth chuckled. "We both learned a lot, from that time."

"I think it is a rare man or woman who does not have a period of being young and foolish," Darcy said. With a sharp pang in her breast, Elizabeth thought immediately of Lydia, and he reached out to clasp her hand, murmuring, "I know," as she blinked at the tears in her eyes.

"What should we do, with the letter?" Elizabeth asked, when she had recovered a little.

"Burn it, I think. I expect my father did the same if they corresponded more on the matter. This letter just happened to be caught up in his old secretaire. Whoever this child is, she is long since grown up."

"I'll put it in the fire tonight, then."

"Are you ready to go for our ride?" asked Darcy.

Elizabeth replied that she was. Her letter could wait another day; at present she was eager for the distractions of family and scenery.


	54. Part 2, Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Georgiana took a pleased glance over Grace, before Matthew assisted her up into the saddle. The mare had always been a handsome creature, but she had never been fitter – it was a rare day that Georgiana was not taking her for a ride about the estate, and she had even once ridden her so far as Fareham, to see a pony that had sounded suitable for Caroline. The pony – a New Forest gelding called Blaze – had indeed proven suitable, and of late she had been going out twice a day, seeing to estate business in the mornings and taking more leisurely rides with Caroline in the afternoons.

Today, however, she and Matthew were riding down to see the Georgiana together; he intended to take the ship for a test sail, and she had responded eagerly to his query as to whether she wished to come with him. As she stepped down from the quay, she was surprised to see Lieutenant Grant standing there.

"Good to see you, sir," he said warmly, shaking Matthew's hand. "And I am grateful to you for thinking of me."

They all stepped aboard the yacht, and Grant and Matthew set about giving their orders to the seamen gathered about the ship. Georgiana recognised more than just Daniel McClare; these were hand-picked men, every single one of them, among the best and most trustworthy seamen ever to sail on Matthew's ships. They knew precisely what they were about in towing the Georgiana's head away from the quay and then raising the boat and seeing to the sails.

The breeze was strong that day and it was not long before they were moving apace down the Solent, a fine foamy wave forming along the ship's side. This was nothing, however, to the speed she showed after they passed the Isle of Wight. Matthew was at the wheel and called out to Grant that they should try her close-hauled, and with a look of raw delight, Grant gave the necessary orders for the seamen made it so. The ship began heeling substantially to larboard, so much so that it was a struggle to walk to the stern of the ship, where Matthew stood with his hands firm on the spokes of the wheel, his mind clearly focused on the ship's sailing qualities as he eased her bow closer and closer into the oncoming wind. The sails were as near in a line as it seemed they ever could be; they remained taut as the wind rushed along them, but Georgiana's hair was buffeted about beneath the edges of her bonnet. She sat down on the long locker running behind where Matthew stood, as the ship took an even more substantial heel.

"I am glad we have Dog, for I expect she will be needing to rescue people in the water with some regularity, if this is how you are to sail her," Georgiana called out.

"Isn't she glorious?" asked Matthew, looking back at her with a countenance that matched his words. But then it fell. "Is it making you ill, dearest?"

"No, carry on – enjoy yourself," said Georgiana. She now saw how it would be – Matthew longing to push the ship to her utmost speed, her rather incredible utmost speed, but needing to temper this with the presence of his family onboard. His wife would not mind indulging him, but the children could hardly play upon a slanting deck, and any guests might find it alarming.

"I've never seen a ship sail so close to the wind, sir!" Grant called out. He threw the log and then followed with, "Fourteen knots, one fathom!"

Every single man on the ship laughed with glee at this, Matthew included, and Georgiana felt a delightful warmth in her heart. She had done this, had purchased this ship that could make him and all of these other men so very happy.

The seamen had already been hired on, and Georgiana suspected Grant was there as a sort of trial, which Matthew confirmed when finally they regained their horses and began the ride home.

"Yes – it is unfortunate, but I believe Grant faces a lifetime as a half-pay lieutenant. I wrote to the Admiralty regarding both him and Rigby. I think I shall have success on Rigby's behalf. He is better-known to them, after the Polonais and the Pearl River, and then for – for bringing the Caroline home after the Icarus. So Rigby might at least hope for placement on another ship as a lieutenant, although I fear he shall never make commander unless we are at war again. Grant has no such hopes, but I will need a master for the ship, someone who can live aboard and hold responsibility when I am not there."

"And Grant is open to living under our employ? I think not every naval lieutenant would be amenable to such a status."

"True. If Egerton – I mean Lord Huntston – was still a lieutenant it is not the sort of thing I would have approached _him_ about, although I am of the hopes that he will come sailing with us, when he is at leisure. But Grant is of lower birth, and he was very interested in the role. We will need a first mate for him, but I think that position can be hired later, when I have a better sense of which of my midshipmen and master's mates are still on shore."

Georgiana nodded. "It will be good, to be able to care for at least some of your followers."

"I had also wanted to speak with you about the vacant cottage by the square. Have you found a tenant for it? For if not I have the perfect candidates."

"I have not," replied Georgiana, unsure if she would ever grow used to a marriage in which the master of the estate was asking _her_ about the tenancy of one of his cottages.

"Travis is unlikely to be assigned to another ship at his age, and he intends to retire rather than seek one. He has a goodly amount of prize money saved up, but he would like to leave something for his niece, and so the cottage would be the perfect size for him and his wife."

"Oh, I would be delighted to have the Travises living so near to us!" exclaimed Georgiana. The cottage was quite small, but after years of living together in one of the Caroline's little cabins off the wardroom, the Travises were the rare couple that could find it spacious.

"I told him we might come to very lenient terms on the rent if he was willing to stay overnight on the ship occasionally to spell Grant, and he was very receptive to that."

"This shall all work out very nicely, then."

"Yes, I believe it shall," said he, smiling fondly at her.

* * *

They returned home to the sound of little Cate's squalling. She had been a fairly peaceful child, but Georgiana did not even have time to wonder what had put her in such a state, for Norton informed her as soon as she was through the door that she was needed in the nursery. Georgiana rushed up the stairs and therein found Catherine holding the baby in her arms and rocking her, to no avail.

"Oh thank goodness you're back – she drank the entire pap boat earlier, and I think she's hungry again."

"I am so sorry, Catherine – I did not think she would have such an appetite."

"It's grown as she has, I think – please, do not worry yourself over it."

Moll was waiting for her behind the dressing-screen, to help with Georgiana's stays and dress, and she filled the basin as quickly as she was able to and handed it over to Moll to take to Catherine. Moll returned with William, and Georgiana offered him her other breast, but he wanted no more than a brief suckle: ever since he had tried solid food at Pemberley he had taken happily to it, and was usually too full for much of his mother's milk. Moll laced and buttoned her back up, and Georgiana emerged to find Catherine laboriously feeding her little namesake. Although the child was plainly hungry, she had stopped crying and was waiting patiently for each suckle upon the flannel.

Catherine looked up. "I fear this has become a burden to you, Georgiana. I believe she is old enough to begin weaning on pap, now."

"No, not at all," said Georgiana firmly. "I shall just ensure I leave more on hand for you, if I am to be away from the house for long."

"But it is a burden – you cannot deny it."

"If it is a burden, it is one I shall gladly bear for her sake, and for my own."

"Your own?" asked Catherine.

"So long as I am feeding a child, I have less chance of becoming with another, and William hardly suckles anymore. I know it did not work for Elizabeth, but anything I can do to try to increase the time between births is useful. Mine are – not easy."

Catherine nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "It feels sometimes as though I've – as though I've cheated, in not having borne her. Particularly given what happened to her _real_ mother."

"I wish you would not. If I could spare every woman that pain – that risk – I absolutely would."

"But only I was spared."

"In some ways, yes – in others, no. The physical pain of birth is awful as it happens, but then it fades, and you heal, much more quickly than I think you will from your pain. It will fade in time, though. You will never forget her, but it will fade."

Catherine did not respond, instead quietly kissing the top of little Cate's head and then looking up at Georgiana, her eyes brimming with tears.

* * *

Thinking of motherhood and those departed made Georgiana even more contemplative than usual that evening, as she read her mother's journal. She recognised much of her mother in herself – the love of music, of playing, and particularly the shyness. Yet Georgiana felt she had grown out of her shyness: her experiences had mandated she do so, for living aboard a naval ship during a journey to and from China had required her to entertain constantly. She had managed it, but moreover she had not minded it, and at times she had even enjoyed it. Georgiana had been nervous in company, upon coming out into society, but Lady Anne's shyness seemed a deeper and more permanent sort. Georgiana was grateful to her father, for understanding his wife's nature so well, for protecting her just as he had his shy daughter, but she was just as grateful to Matthew for believing in his wife's _heart of oak_ , as he had called it.

She was nearing the time of Andrew Fitzwilliam's birth, and read of her parents' arriving at Stradbroke with fond nostalgia for her aunt and uncle's home, for she had not been there in some years, now. She read on, until she reached the part that made her gasp. Aunt Catherine had – had killed her own father, Georgiana's grandfather – had given him drink after drink of laudanum in spirits of brandy until he went to sleep and never awakened.

"Dearest, what is it?"

"Elizabeth told me there would be something – something awful within these journals. Now I know what she meant." Georgiana told him of what her aunt had done and then gazed at him, curious as to his reaction. It was no small thing to take a life, he had said, and yet he had done so many times over, in his career. Never like aunt Catherine had, though.

He took a deep breath and exhaled, long and slow. "I do not know her so well as you, but I do not find it out of what I have observed of her character."

"I – I suppose I do not, either," murmured Georgiana. "I agreed even before I read of it, that I would keep it a secret. Elizabeth told me that she and Fitzwilliam were agreed it could not be shared."

"Perhaps that makes us a little more equal, as family connexions go – now both sides of our family have an awful secret."

Georgiana did not respond. She felt deeply troubled, felt that her aunt's being a murderess was a far worse secret than Matthew's true parentage. Perhaps Matthew sensed this, for he set the journal aside and drew her close, rubbing her back and letting her feel every comfort of his presence.

"Our forebears had their secrets, Georgiana, and we have our own," he murmured. "But if ours is that we lied about a child's parentage and a woman's death to protect an innocent little girl, I feel our generation has done better, and that is as it should be."

"Yes, you are right. It is as it should be," she whispered.


	55. Part 2, Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

The Darcys remained at the Lake house until late November, when a spate of bitterly cold rain made them determine it would be best to return home whenever there was a break in the weather. Elizabeth climbed into the carriage feeling it had been the right decision, and yet utterly certain she would miss this place deep in her bones, that as wonderful a home as Pemberley was, it could not provide them with the familial intimacy they had known these past few months.

The morning after their return, Elizabeth's first act was to call upon the dowager Mrs. Sinclair and Clarissa, both of them now well into half-mourning and beginning to mix in the neighbourhood again. They found Mrs. Darcy looking far better than she had when last they had seen her; she was no longer plagued by morning illness now that her pregnancy was farther along, and her former exhaustion seemed but a memory, albeit an awful one.

In the days that followed, Mr. Houlton called on Mr. Darcy, which then enabled his wife to call on Mrs. Darcy and fully resume society within the neighbourhood. Elizabeth planned dinners, and her husband the first outing of the Pemberley hunt, with which his wife would now ride out, but no more. Flora might be a fine jumper for all Elizabeth knew, but she had no intention of finding out, and so she would not stay with the hunt once it began in earnest. And indeed, it was only her deep trust in dear Flora that would see her on horseback at all while with child.

One of Elizabeth's riding gloves had gone astray during the move between houses, prompting extensive apologies by Sarah, who had searched everywhere for it and informed her mistress in distressed accents that it was missing and likely back at the Lake house. Elizabeth assured her it was nothing; they could go to Green's in the course of the next day and purchase another pair.

She encouraged Sarah to bring Brigid with her on this expedition; Elizabeth liked Brigid, for the girl seemed as though she would be like Sarah once she had grown out of her shyness. They took the carriage thither, and as they were entering the shop came across Bernard and Sean Kelly just leaving, Bernard with a parcel under his arm. Elizabeth greeted them, and as the Kelly family were embracing behind her, Mr. Green said, in a voice loud enough to be heard by all five of them,

"Am I to have to entertain more of these drunken savages?"

The Kelly family were between the counter and Elizabeth – Mr. Green had not seen that Mrs. Darcy formed a portion of the party. Full of fury, Elizabeth stepped around them and exclaimed, "Mr. Green! How dare you speak thus about these good people?"

Green looked surprised to see her, but not particularly abashed. "It's nothing against you or the Pemberley family, ma'am."

"Is it not? You just insulted my servants and tenants. Do you think Mr. Darcy and I did not know what we were about when we hired them?"

"Well of course not, ma'am, but there's plenty of people around here who think those jobs ought to have gone to local folks rather than Irish imports."

"Pemberley farms and Pemberley positions will always go to those who are loyal to Pemberley," stated Elizabeth. "Anyone who could say thus about our people is obviously not such a person. I will not have my maid shop somewhere she is not welcome. Come Kelly, Brigid – we will order what we had planned to purchase from town. The shops on Bond Street have a much better understanding of your worth as an abigail, Kelly."

Elizabeth turned and marched out of the shop, passing the four gaping Kellys and opening the door herself. This prompted all of them to rush after her in an endeavour to hold it for her, an act Elizabeth might have found comical if she had not been so livid.

She pointedly offered Bernard and Sean a ride home in her carriage – there would be room enough for both on the box, if Henry rode up front with Powell – and they accepted, seeming to understand that she wished for a very public display of support for their family. The women inside were silent as the carriage set out, but although Sarah struggled mightily to contain her tears, in time they spilled over. Elizabeth looked at her in concern.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I just – I wish you hadn't needed to do that."

"I wish I hadn't either, but I would do it again a thousand times over. Do you often hear things like this, when I am not with you?"

"Sometimes, ma'am. Not from everybody, but there's a few as always makes comments. Mr. Green is one of 'em."

"I meant what I said, Kelly. Pemberley will not buy a jot from him. We will get what we need from the shops in Kympton, Matlock, Derby, or London."

Sarah gasped. "But his shop could not survive without support from Pemberley!"

"Perhaps when he comes to understand that, he will improve his behaviour. I intend to stand firm on this, and I am sure Mr. Darcy will as well. I meant what I said – I consider an insult to you to be an insult to Pemberley, and to the Darcys."

"Thank you, ma'am," whispered Sarah. She turned her head to look out the window, although Elizabeth could see this was primarily to hide her continuing tears from Elizabeth and her sister.

They were all silent for some minutes, but then Brigid – to the great shock of the other two women – burst out, "It's extry tough fer Sarah, 'cause she's caught in the middle."

Brigid turned entirely pink after saying this, and it was only with coaxing from Elizabeth that she elaborated, "I-mean-'cause-'cause she wants ta be Pro'sstant an' mamma and pappa don' like that t'all an' some th' Pro'sstants don' want-her-neither."

Sarah sighed, and blinked, but otherwise continued to stare out the window, so that Elizabeth had a good sense that Brigid was accurate in what she said. Brigid was still quite pink, and Elizabeth gently thanked her for elaborating. The girl nodded, and then they all turned their attention outside the windows.

They were in the outskirts of the village now, just passing Watson House. It was a handsome stone house, a bit too large to fit appropriately with such a village, but far enough away that it did not interrupt the handsome old high street. It was the house where Mrs. Gardiner had spent much of her childhood, having previously been Newton House, Mr. Newton's death coming a few years after his niece had married, and the Watsons at that same time seeing an increase in their own income from trade. Elizabeth's aunt and uncle had inherited the proceeds from the sale, and she always looked upon the place with fondness, both because she liked the Watsons and because her aunt had passed many happy years within.

It put her in a slightly better frame of mind during the rest of the drive, but she was still more than livid enough to burst into his study and give Darcy an earful of what had happened as soon as she returned home. She was grateful that his anger over the event matched hers – he likewise saw an insult to their servants and tenants as an insult to themselves – and that he agreed there were plenty of other shops that ought to receive their patronage before one whose proprietor held such an attitude. She felt a rush of guilt only as she left that she had not – as she had been intending to do on their return to Pemberley – respected the sanctity of that space, and she vowed to do better in the future.

Elizabeth thought about what Brigid had said throughout the remainder of her day, and wished she had thought more on what the presence of Sarah's family within the neighbourhood would do to her maid. Sarah had been grateful to have her family so near, but before they had come here, she had quietly attended church with the Darcy family every Sunday, and to Elizabeth's knowledge had not been singled out for being Irish. Now that her whole family was here, they were more noticeable to the neighbourhood, and it must also have been noticed that Sarah was the only one of them to attend church in Lambton or Kympton.

"Sarah, I am sorry that I did not understand more of what you were going through," Elizabeth said, wrapping her dressing-gown tight against the evening chill. "It cannot be easy to be so singled out for your origins, nor to be pulled between two faiths."

Sarah blinked. "The trouble is, ma'am, I don't see it as so different as everyone else does. So far as I think, it's all the same God and we should all be tryin' to do good and avoid sin, but I fear sometimes I'm the only one who doesn't see it like that. I like attending church, and I wish I could feel as though I truly belonged, at church, but my family don't see it that way. I'm not the only one, since Moll turned Protestant when she married, but she lives so far away, compared to the rest of my family."

Elizabeth laid her hand on Sarah's arm. "I'm sorry this has been difficult for you. I should have thought more about how it would be."

"Thank you, ma'am. There's – there's actually something I've been wishing to ask you about, if I may."

"Of course, Sarah."

"I'd – I'd like to be baptised as a Protestant, but I don't want Mr. Clark to do it. I understand we'll be going down to Wincham when Mrs. Stanton has her baby, and I wished to know if you think Reverend Stanton would be willing to do it."

"Oh – well – I am sure he would be, so long as there is no issue with doing it outside of this parish."

"This isn't really my home parish. I'll not ever be back in my home parish, I don't think. You've no reason to go to Ireland."

"No, I doubt we ever will. Do you still feel homesick for Ireland, with your family here?"

"Not really. There's some things I still miss, but I'm happy here, I truly am, even with our differences over church, and what happens sometimes in the villages."

"Well, I shall write to my brother and see what is necessary for him to perform the ceremony. I don't suppose you'd want any of your family beyond Brigid there? I presume she will go with us, to continue her education."

"Nay, ma'am. Moll's right busy preparing to take over the inn, and the rest of them – well, that's part of why I'd rather do it away from here. I want to do it for myself, not for anyone else. When I go to church here, I want to know in my bones that I belong."

"I understand."

"Thank ye, ma'am," said Sarah. "Oh, and I wrote to Harding's in London, about new riding gloves for you, but I fear they won't get here in time for the first hunt. I'm still hopeful the missing one'll turn up at the lake house, but if it doesn't, I don't know what you can wear."

"Never worry about that. Flora has a soft mouth – she does not require a firm hand. I am sure I have some pair that will serve even if the leather is thinner. Perhaps the old blue kid gloves – they've faded and do not match my pelisse so well anymore, but they'll go well enough with the navy riding habit."

"Yes, of course – and thank you, ma'am. Thank you so very much for everything. I do not deserve to be in your service, but I am ever grateful for it, all the same."

"There I must disagree with you, Sarah. You deserve every good thing that comes into your life."

* * *

The next morning, Darcy informed his wife of his intent to take Peregrine for a long ride over the estate and offered that she could accompany him on Spartan. Elizabeth said she would rather wait for Flora's return from the Lakes; only on her smooth-gaited mare did a ride of the length she expected he would wish to make sound appealing, and she was not inclined to return to a different mount while carrying their child.

After he had gone out, she went down into his study and gazed at the secretaire there, firm in her resolve but unsure how to proceed. It should not remain, but she did not want the questioning looks she would be given if she asked to have the footmen move it into her own study. It was a small, light little piece and when she endeavoured to pick it up she found it would be no trouble to move it herself, although she did so surreptitiously, certain no-one else in the house would react well to seeing its mistress – its five months pregnant mistress – moving furniture about. She did the same with the chair and then went back and gathered up the household accounts and took them to her study, closing the door to Darcy's behind her.

She set the accounts down on Lady Anne's overly gilded desk and gazed about her. This room was even more ostentatious than Lady Anne's bedchamber and dressing-room; it was designed to impress, to intimidate those who might otherwise have intimidated Lady Anne, and it would need to be redone as well if Elizabeth was to spend any length of time in here. Her little secretaire – filched from one of the bedrooms – was the only piece of furniture that could be pleasing to the eye, and the deep maroon silk on the walls made the room seem dark and oppressive. Perhaps, Elizabeth thought, she might have Jasper hang the wallpaper that had been intended for her bedroom here, for whatever an architect might suggest would surely be more substantial than wallpaper. Then she smiled, as an idea came to her, an idea that continued to form as she took the most recent of the account books over to her little secretaire and began to work on it. She was thus when there came a knock at the door, and then, "Elizabeth, are you in here?"

It was Darcy, of course, and she called out that she was and he should come in. He entered looking perplexed and said, "Your secretaire was gone – I thought – I – why did you move it in here?"

"I think, like your mother, you need – space – away from other people sometimes, but you have been too kind to ask me to stay out of what should be your most private room."

"I have been too deeply in love to ask you to stay out of my study, not too kind. I enjoy your presence, Elizabeth. I always have."

"I do not intend to come back, at least with any regularity. I use all of your rooms, at present – you should have one that is your own," said she. "But you need not worry. I am going to redecorate this room so that it is the most tempting room a gentleman has ever known – it shall be a Grand Tour and White's and Tattersalls all together in one – and then you may come in and visit me here whenever you wish."

Darcy chuckled. "You have not even finished your other rooms and yet you wish to begin another project?"

"I shall not need an architect for this one. Jasper can manage the installation of wallpaper here, I am certain."

"Ah yes, we should have someone out to see your other chambers, now that we are returned to the house. I believe the best men working today are the Wyatts, Soane, and Nash."

"Oh dear, not Nash. I want less gilt, not more."

He laughed. "I think Soane is best aligned to your taste. Would you wish me to write to him, and see if he is available?"

"Yes, please."

"I shall, then," he said. "From my study, I suppose, until you have turned this one into your gentleman's fantasy-land."

Elizabeth laughed, but as he left her she realised that he had not put up much of an argument as to her vacating his rooms. Yes, he had reaffirmed his love for her and she was glad of it, but he had moved on quickly enough to a related subject. She was doing the right thing, she thought, and their marriage would be all the better for it.


	56. Part 2, Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

After the incident when they had run out of milk for poor little Cate, Georgiana left two full basins behind her in the nursery, when she went up to Southampton. For attending a meeting of the Hampshire Society for the Abolition of Slavery was something she had wished to do for a very long time, but this was the first time she had been in Hampshire during one of the meetings.

The meeting was held in a private parlour at the Dolphin, and Georgiana did not feel any trepidation until the moment she entered and felt very out of place. There were perhaps a dozen people within, far more women than men, all of them decidedly of the middle classes. Georgiana had dressed well, to be meeting with strangers: too well, she now understood. They all turned to stare at her and she felt deeply uncomfortable, deeply in that moment like Lady Anne Darcy's daughter.

She sat down quietly in the seat nearest her, and attention turned away from her as those in the room continued in their various conversations. Eventually the hour for the meeting to start arrived, and one of the women went up to the front of the room and began to speak. She talked mostly of endeavours to get the people of the county to stop using sugar, and Georgiana listened with interest. Others spoke, and Georgiana began to get the sense that the group's efforts were still nascent; their hearts were all in the right place, but even the boycott of sugar was in its infancy.

Then the meeting ended, and with a sinking feeling in her stomach, Georgiana saw they were going to the back of the room, where tea things had been set up. For a moment she felt she should just slip away from the room, but she knew if she did this, she would never feel comfortable returning, and her commitment to this cause was far stronger than her present discomfort. So she went to the table there and was handed a cup of tea by a woman with a sour countenance. Georgiana stepped back and sipped her tea: a brew of poor quality, made worse by the lack of sugar. She longed for some of Stanton Hall's honey.

"It takes some getting used to, without the sugar," said a woman by Georgiana's elbow. Her face was far younger and friendlier, and Georgiana smiled warmly.

"I – I have grown used to honey," she admitted. "I installed an apiary, at my home."

"Did you? Goodness, I'd give a great deal for a little honey right now."

"Perhaps – perhaps I could bring a jar, to the next meeting."

"I'm sure I'd like that, as would most of us, except maybe Mrs. North." The woman looked over towards the sour-faced lady and her voice dropped to a whisper: "I think she likes her tea bitter."

They were at risk of lapsing into silence, but then the woman added, "So was your apiary installed so you could boycott sugar?"

Georgiana nodded. "Yes, my husband is a naval captain and I have lived on his ship for the past few years, when he was at sea. He captured a slave ship while we were on our way to China, and I shall never forget what I saw on that ship, nor at a slave auction in Baltimore. I have been wanting to attend this society for some time, but this is the first time I have been at home and able to do so."

"You have travelled to China – why then you must be Lady Stanton! I read all about the Embassy in the newspapers, but I did not know your husband's ship had captured a slave ship as well. What a journey you must have had!"

"I am Lady Stanton, yes." Feeling uncomfortable once more, Georgiana gazed at the woman.

"Oh, and I am Mrs. Prescott. Just plain Mrs. Prescott. I wondered what you were doing here – we don't get much in the line of great ladies."

Georgiana was about to protest that she was not a great lady, not compared to someone like her aunt, Lady Brandon, but thought better of it. A few others were beginning to gather around them, having overheard some of their conversation and finding it interesting, and Mrs. Prescott took it upon herself to fill them in on anything they had not overheard: this is Lady Stanton – husband is a naval captain – Embassy to China, don't you remember the Embassy to China? – has seen a slave ship and a slave auction – has an apiary – makes her own honey.

These latter three things prompted many questions and soon enough Georgiana was describing what she had seen in great, painful detail, and explaining what was involved in beekeeping. Even Mrs. North eventually came to listen from the edge of the group, although her countenance did not get much less sour. In speaking of these things in detail, Georgiana found them all becoming friendlier, more accepting of her, and she suspected they had thought her to be there on a lark, had not understood she had very personal reasons for being committed to abolition.

When they had seemingly exhausted their questions, they began to tell her of their plans for the future of the society. The sugar boycott was the first they hoped would take hold, but after that, they wanted to stop the use of American cotton.

"I – I hope I might be able to aid in that," said Georgiana hesitantly. "My sister-in-law has some influence, on fashions. I believe she would be willing to let it be known that she does not wear cotton that comes from slavery."

"Who is your sister?" sniffed Mrs. North.

"Mrs. Darcy."

" _The_ Mrs. Darcy that's always in the papers?" asked one of the women. "Can you really be sisters with her?"

"Don't be a dolt, Josie, she's Lady Stanton, why can't she be sisters with Mrs. Darcy?" asked another.

Georgiana was not sure whether to feel amused or mortified, but as the conversation continued on to other topics, she felt herself settling upon amused, for she felt certain it was how Elizabeth would have reacted, to her them speaking thus about her.

They finished their tea and she walked out with Mrs. Prescott, whom she learned lived in Southampton. Georgiana gathered Mrs. Prescott's husband was in manufacturing – she suspected this was true for most of those in the society – but they were outside with Murray and the landau waiting before they could speak further.

"I hope you'll come back. You've seen things the rest of us haven't – in fact, I wonder if we might publish a pamphlet about the slave ship, and the auction. People should know. What you said about them bringing up the dead on the slave ship – " Mrs. Prescott shuddered, and did not continue.

"I would be honoured to write something, if you think it would help."

"Good – let's discuss it at the next meeting, then. It was very nice to meet you, Lady Stanton."

"And you, Mrs. Prescott."

* * *

Georgiana's brother had always impressed upon her the importance of doing one's duty, even when that duty was unpleasant. There was one duty Georgiana loathed so much as to _nearly_ refrain from Fitzwilliam's teachings, and this was manging the household and estate accounts. She always did them when it was required, but she put them off for as long as this could be done without guilt. The difficulty of it was, she had been taught in all of the skills thought necessary for her to be an accomplished young lady, but no-one had thought to include mathematics within these skills, and even if they had, Georgiana did not think she had a head for sums.

She laid her head in her hand and rubbed her temples, hoping to stave off the inevitable head-ache that came with doing this work and tamping down her frustration at needing to do two sets of accounts, rather than one. Matthew came into the library to find her thus and said, "Dearest, you look unwell. What exhausts you so?"

Georgiana glanced up. "I have added up this page three times and arrived at three different results."

"Hmm." He came closer and leaned over her. "This page, on the left?"

"Yes."

He looked at it for less than a minute and then said. "Thirty-six pounds, five shillings, three pence."

Georgiana groaned. "None of those was the figure I arrived at, and I am embarrassed to say how long I have been about it."

Bending his head, he kissed the top of hers. "I have been wondering for some time how I might better contribute about the house and estate, but you always seem so capable regarding everything. However, keeping accounts – mathematics – these are things I have experience in. Would you like for me to manage them?"

"Both the estate _and_ the household accounts?" Georgiana asked hopefully.

"Certainly, if you wish it."

She sighed, happily. "Oh Matthew, it would be such a relief if you did."

"This has been a burden to you for some time," he stated. "Has there been more that has been a burden, Georgiana? I may not have lived on land for much of my life, but I am aware that the degree of responsibility you have taken on in the estate is not usual. I may not be so good at it as you, but I know it should be my duty."

"I don't mind all the rest – indeed there is much of it I like, improving the land particularly – so long as you do not mind that I do it. I wouldn't want you to feel I am usurping what should be your role."

He chuckled. "Unless you intend to command our yacht I feel no risk of that, dearest. Let us divide things up according to what each is best at, which means you must give me your seat."

Delighted, Georgiana laid her pen down and rose from her chair at the great vast desk, throwing her arms about Matthew and kissing him deeply before he could sit down in her place. He smiled at her reaction and Georgiana left the library, freed permanently from her most loathsome task.

Her happy mood lasted until that night, when she took her mother's journal up to bed with her. Georgiana had been saving this part – her own birth – for when she could read it with some privacy, for she had no doubt that it would make her deeply emotional.

She was right, of course. To read of her mother's fragile hopes, to know something neither Fitzwilliam nor papa had told her – that she had spent most of her first months lying upon her mother's chest before the fire for warmth – was to understand just how deeply she had been loved, how painfully her mother had hoped for her survival. Georgiana had struggled to grow her family, but not in the same way mama had; mama had finally been granted a daughter, a sister for her only surviving son, while Georgiana already had a daughter and a son at a far younger age. Any more children would be more than her mother had been blessed with, she thought, and she wept on her mother's behalf.

Matthew knew she had been drawing ever-closer to this part, and he pulled her into an embrace as she whispered, "poor mama, oh my poor mama," all the while knowing that she only had four more years of journals, to spend with her mother. Four more years before she lost her mother in a very different way than the last time, for she would lose a woman she had finally come to know, to understand.


	57. Part 2, Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Darcy received a prompt response to his inquiry regarding Mr. Soane's availability: he was at present on the continent, but as he had so much work in London as to make it unlikely for him to be able travel to Derbyshire upon his return, his assistant might attend the Darcys, discuss their needs and take measurements, and then Mr. Soane could draw up plans upon his return. This was all written by said assistant, Mr. Bailey, and Darcy sent a response indicating his wife was amenable to this plan.

Mr. Bailey arrived in the post-chaise sent down for him, and unabashedly requested a tour of the house, for he said he always liked to see a house from the _Vitruvius Britannicus_ when he had opportunity. It was given to him by both of the Darcys, but he addressed all of his questions to Mr. Darcy. There was a certain logic to this: Darcy knew the history of the house better, but still, Elizabeth was glad that when they reached her rooms, her husband said, "I shall leave the two of you to discuss Mrs. Darcy's needs for her rooms," bowed, and left them with a footman to mind the door.

Once Darcy had gone, Mr. Bailey did listen attentively to Elizabeth's thoughts on what she wanted for the rooms, and he reacted with surprise when she showed him the secret closet, saying he'd not seen one so well-concealed.

"I wish very much to keep it that way," said Elizabeth, "but I would like to do away with the old panelling. I had been intending to put up wallpaper – I had ordered some very nice scenes of Italy – but I do not think that shall work."

He nodded. "I think it might be possible to conceal the door, but perhaps in a mural painted specifically around the door, rather than wallpaper. Is Italy still your preference?"

"I like it, but I intend to use the paper in my study instead. In truth my heart is drawn more to scenes closer to home. We recently spent a few months in the Lakes, and I adore that place."

"Ah, yes! Who has been that cannot adore the Lakes?" he asked. "And how do you feel of styles? I do not see Etruscan or Egyptian blending well with a scene from the Lakes, but classical or gothic could be made to work, I think. Mr. Soane will of course have his own thoughts, but if you have strong feelings on either, do let me know."

"Classical would suit the house better, I think, but I would be willing to consider gothic – perhaps a very light gothic. The main thing I wish to do away with is all of this ostentation – no gilt, please."

Mr. Bailey nodded and asked her further questions about how she intended to furnish the room. She walked about, explaining the furniture she intended for each area of both her bedchamber and dressing-room, and when she was finished he asked if he could have some hours within them to make measurements and sketch the present situation. Elizabeth said that he could and left him with Jasper to attend him and assist in the plans.

Once Mr. Bailey had left to return to London, there was little remaining for the Darcys to anticipate save Christmas. It was to be a comparably quiet one, for those of their family who had gone to Stanton Hall would remain there for the event, which left only the Bingleys and the Wincham Stantons as certainties to attend. Still, Elizabeth wrote to the Fitzwilliams and the Gardiners in the hopes that their favoured company might enliven the house more, and was delighted when they all responded that they would come.

The Fitzwilliams arrived first, and in such goodly time as to allow Marguerite and Elizabeth to ride out together with the next hunt. Elizabeth was surprised to see Laurence Sinclair join the group of men gathered on Pemberley's lawn; he had skipped the previous hunt, and Elizabeth suspected that if he could have afforded his own pack of hounds, he would certainly have set up his own. He could not, however, and gave both Elizabeth and her husband a hard, cold glare, but turned a far more favourable eye on Marguerite, who rewarded his attention by completely ignoring him to converse with Elizabeth.

They stayed with the hunt until the hounds caught the scent and the field began to follow at a gallop: Mr. Sinclair thrice beating his horse in an endeavour to lead the field and succeeding because this was the Pemberley hunt and no-one else cared about such things; Darcy, Edward, and Andrew riding comfortably behind Sinclair and looking far more like they were enjoying themselves; and further back in the line, Lord Brandon and Mr. Houlton alongside each other as the eldest riders in the field.

The ladies watched them go and then turned back. It was only then that Marguerite told Elizabeth – whose riding habit fit so closely as to make apparent what she had already shared with her cousin in a letter – that Marguerite was also in the family way, although her child was expected some months after Elizabeth's would be born. Elizabeth expressed her happiness at the thought that her child might have another cousin near in age, in addition to Mary's baby, and they rode on equally delighted over this thought.

Jane's happiness came from a different source, quite simply seeing her younger sister standing there in the drive and looking much more _well_ , than when Jane had seen her last. Elizabeth had written often of her improving health, but such knowledge did not prevent Jane from stepping down from the carriage and immediately embracing her, exclaiming, "Oh Lizzy, you look so much better. I am so glad, my dear, dear sister."

"And I feel so much better," affirmed Elizabeth. "You will not need to shoo me off to bed during this visit, I promise you."

It was only then that Elizabeth turned her attention to Abigail, who had emerged shyly from the Bingley carriage, smiling to her friend. Elizabeth rushed up to embrace her, saying, "And I am so glad to see you. How have you been?"

"Very well," smiled Abigail. "The Bingleys have been ever so lovely to stay with."

Perhaps this statement should have made Elizabeth realize what was to come later, when Abigail found her reading alone in the library and asked if they could talk.

"Of course," said Elizabeth. "We've not had a chance to talk since – since you left the neighbourhood."

"That's what I wished to talk with you about. I'm not going to return to the neighbourhood. There are a few rooms in the Bingleys's new house that are almost ready for use, and they have offered to let me lease them for a nominal cost. I know Laurence and I are legally separated now, but I'd rather not live in the same neighbourhood as him."

In Elizabeth's initial plans for Abigail, she had envisioned her friend eventually joining the dowager Mrs. Sinclair and Clarissa at Fitzwilliam House and had gone so far as to make overtures on the idea to Mrs. Sinclair, who had responded favourably. Yet Elizabeth immediately saw the sense of Abigail's remaining near the Bingleys – of living farther away from her husband. If it had been anyone other than Jane, Elizabeth might have felt some sense of jealousy, of the lady who had been her friend first being stolen away, but it _was_ Jane – and who would not wish to live so near the comforts of Jane Bingley, if given a choice?

"I think that is a wonderful idea," said Elizabeth. "And I hope I shall see you as often as I do my sister. Will you be comfortable residing here during the Christmas season, though?"

"Yes, I know I am safe here at Pemberley."

Elizabeth nodded. Her husband had directed that Laurence Sinclair was not to be admitted if he attempted to call during his wife's residence in the house, and Abigail was well aware of this.

"Elizabeth, I can never thank you enough. I am so glad, and so grateful to you," said Abigail. "For the first time in a very long time, I'm not just safe – I'm happy."

* * *

Abigail provided evidence of this happiness in the following days – Elizabeth suspected she had not known a happy Christmas since she had been orphaned, for she was plainly throwing herself into enjoyment of this one. Elizabeth and Jane, the two women who had worked to secure Abigail's safety, could not but watch her and feel their own happiness.

This happiness faded, though, with the arrival of the Gardiners. Elizabeth still loved her aunt and uncle and their children dearly, but their presence was a reminder of the secret that was not known among all of their family. It was a secret from the Fitzwilliams, too, but Lydia was not their niece. Elizabeth wondered if they should tell her aunt and uncle of what had happened, but then her aunt had not proven particularly good at keeping secrets, and Elizabeth decided it would be for the best if no more people than already knew were to be told, although it pained her to think of keeping such a thing from the Gardiners.

It pained Jane, as well, and one morning when Elizabeth could not find her sister elsewhere in the house, she eventually thought to look in the bedchamber where Lydia had died. And there was Jane, sitting quietly in a chair facing the bed. She was not weeping, but her face was deeply contemplative.

"I am so sorry," said Elizabeth, feeling she had intruded. "I'll leave you."

"No, stay if you like, Lizzy. I was just – remembering."

"I must confess I have not been in this room since it happened," said Elizabeth. "I have been thinking of her, mourning her, but I do not like thinking of those final days here."

"I hate thinking of the end, but before that, Lydia and I had such nice conversations, when I was staying up overnight with her. Sometimes the pain was too much for her to sleep, and we talked more than I think we ever talked together before, about her hopes for the baby and her memories of Longbourn. So that's what I like to remember – that time with her."

Jane had not been present for all of the awful events within this room, and perhaps that allowed her to view the space more peacefully, Elizabeth thought. She did not begrudge her sister this, and merely said, "I think that means we are healing, if we can think more of our good memories, of Lydia."

"I think you are right," stated Jane.

"I have been meaning to go and lay some rosemary on her grave, if you would like to join me."

"I would – let us go now," said Jane, and so the sisters quietly closed the door behind them, donned their pelisses and went out to the kitchen garden, where they clipped a few sprigs of rosemary each. Then they walked out to the cemetery and laid the sprigs down upon the patch of new grass beside George and Augusta Wickham's tombstone.

"I wish – " whispered Jane, but she did not complete her thought. Elizabeth reached down and clasped her sister's hand, for she understood what Jane meant. They both wished for a great many things at present, and none of them could ever be granted.

* * *

It was the children who cheered them, as children are wont to do during such a season. The arrival of all of the families brought a vast range of ages into the nursery and the bedchambers surrounding it, and the house often rang with their happy laughter. None was happier, though, than Emma Bingley when she espied Marianne Stanton at the nursery door, where she had been escorted by her very pregnant mother.

Mary told them over dinner that it had taken some convincing to get her daughter to leave the parsonage and her kittens, but ultimately the lure of her friend Emma had done the trick. The adults lamented the absent Caroline, and followed this by lamenting everyone else who had remained at Stanton Hall, and Mrs. Gardiner followed this by saying,

"I wish we could all be together, but I am so delighted for Catherine, to finally have a child. I am glad she stays there, to rest."

An uncomfortable silence followed, but thankfully Edward, not privy to the secret, asked what games they had arranged for the children that evening. He reacted with delight, upon hearing snap-dragon formed part of the plans, and they retired to the drawing-room for those games soon enough – the rather raucous games, now that there were so many children of an age to play them. All but Charles played at hot cockles, and there were more than a few ferocious competitors at snap-dragon, both children and adults. George had outgrown his dislike of the shrieking chaos involved in the game, but when it was over he took his raisins to a chair in the corner and ate them quietly, while James none-too-surreptitiously went up to the table for yet another slice of plum-pudding and went to sit with him there, the twins eating in companionable silence.

Charles had decided that rice-pudding was to be added to the little list of things he would eat, and he was methodically making his way through a bowl at Elizabeth's side. She looked about to where George Nichols had gone to, and saw him with Jean-Charles Durand and Bess Bingley, the three of them watching with eager interest as the footmen laid sheets down in preparation for the bullet pudding.

Snap-dragon, long a Darcy and Fitzwilliam favourite, made a return appearance every evening before Christmas, although Marianne only had her chance for six evenings; as they had in years past, the family held an early Christmas feast on the twenty-third so that the Stantons could partake before David needed to return to his parish. The most raucous game of snap-dragon came after the children had gone to bed on Christmas Eve, when Edward dropped another fistful of raisins into the punch bowl, dumped a decanter of brandy into it, and lit it with a nearby candle, glancing mischievously at his brother and cousin. They needed no further invitation to begin scrabbling for raisins, and upon seeing this, Charles Bingley shrugged and elbowed his way in to make a fourth. Elizabeth, Jane, and Marguerite sat together and watched this in varying degrees of amusement and consternation.

Elizabeth teased her husband over this only the slightest little bit: she was aware of the depth of his responsibilities and thought he deserved those few opportunities for frivolity he took. She slept well that night, and awakened to find him still in bed with her, his countenance appearing as though he had once again been gazing at her, waiting for her to wake.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Darcy," he murmured, brushing her cheek with his fingertips and then drawing closer to kiss her.

"Mmm, Happy Christmas, Mr. Darcy."

He startled her then, by dipping his head below the covers to kiss her belly, which was followed by a muffled, "Happy Christmas, Baby Darcy."

Elizabeth chuckled heartily and kissed him again when he re-emerged. His hand lingered on her jaw, after the kiss ended, and he said, "I would like to give you your present more – intimately – if you do not mind."

"Not at all – I would rather the same for you."

He bade her to stay in bed and inquired as to where his present might be retrieved, eventually returning with a familiar paper-wrapped box and an unfamiliar red silk pouch. He climbed up into bed and handed her the pouch, and Elizabeth loosened it slowly. She was certain that whatever was held within would be something she would like – it felt like jewellery and his taste in such was impeccable – but just what it was she could not tell until she pulled a gold chain from the pouch. Hanging from the chain was a fob seal, the most intricate fob seal Elizabeth had ever seen, and yet of a small, delicate size. The usual loop connected the seal to its chain, but below the loop was a rose-cut diamond of substantial size, and on either side of the diamond were two golden leaves, connecting to the seal itself. Elizabeth turned the seal so as to see it and found it was a stone that appeared to be banded Derbyshire spar, carved in the Darcy family seal.

"Oh Darcy, it's beautiful," Elizabeth whispered.

"I thought a lot about – after my absence – about the diamond necklace. I wanted you to have something you could wear every day, to reaffirm my love for you, and your place in this family. I was not sure what length of chain would prefer, though – there is another, in the pouch."

Elizabeth slipped her fingers within the pouch and withdrew a gold chain of greater length than the one that held the seal presently. "The one you had was of a very fine length, but it is quite possible I shall require the longer at times, depending upon my dress. Thank you, my love – it's – it's perfect."

He eyed her for some moments as though ascertaining she spoke the truth – even after years of marriage, it was still so strange to see the man Elizabeth had once thought marked of arrogance in such uncertainty – and then slowly began opening his own package. Darcy was a nearly impossible man to shop for – a mature gentleman with his taste well-established and the funds to purchase whatever struck his fancy when it struck his fancy – but Elizabeth had put a goodly degree of effort into procuring something unique for him this year, for reasons, she thought, that appeared similar to his own: they both had sought to give each other a permanent, beautiful, but yet everyday talisman of their love.

Darcy slipped his gift from the wrapping without so much as tearing the paper, and drew in a sharp breath, which informed Elizabeth that she had been successful. He held a gold Breguet Tourbillon Regulator, the piece glinting in the early morning light as he turned it over to read the inscription on the back:

"My love

"always,

"E.D."

"I would have treasured a far more poorly crafted watch for this inscription," he murmured, "but this – this is doubly beautiful, my love."

Elizabeth felt a sense of sweet satisfaction, that they had each given such wonderfully matched gifts, and their kisses following the exchange were equally sweet. She wore the little seal on the shorter chain as they went down to breakfast, and then to the drawing-room where the family would exchange their gifts. As might be expected, the children were most delighted over their presents, although Lady Ellen happily surprised the Darcys with a watercolour copy of her old painting of Darcy and Georgiana, prettily framed. Elizabeth had asked her aunt if she would be willing to do a copy, but had not thought Lady Ellen could have completed it so quickly, still less sent it to Derby to have it framed.

The Darcys agreed it should be given a prominent place there within the blue drawing-room, a place Lady Anne would never have dared give it, and Elizabeth felt a strange pang as she thought of her mother-in-law. She wished Lady Anne could have lived to be there with them, could have lived to see her grandchildren playing on the floor with their new toys. But then, if Lady Anne had lived, Elizabeth would not have known her so well, and she might not have understood that beneath the veneer of a woman attempting to be grand was the very tenderest of hearts. Perhaps in time she would have seen it, though, or perhaps the changes in her own son – and his choice of a wife – might have eased poor Anne's anxiety and allowed her to be more comfortable with a life that was not designed for show.

Elizabeth could never truly know how things might have been, if Lady Anne had lived, but her heart returned to contentedness as she watched Lady Anne's son and grandsons in their happiness. Her contentedness grew still further as the son quietly laid his fingers upon his new watch, then caught that his wife's attention was upon him and smiled. Elizabeth touched the pendant at her neck and returned his smile.

* * *

Since Elizabeth had married, she had come to enjoy Boxing Day very much. The Darcys had always been generous to their servants and she enjoyed being such to these good people who so deserved it, most particularly Sarah. She enjoyed, too, the annual ritual of Sarah protesting that she had been given too much and Elizabeth's affirming all of the reasons why Sarah deserved every coin within her box.

This year, however, Sarah departed from this ritual by handing her mistress a package tied up with a very pretty ribbon as Elizabeth gave over her box.

"Oh Sarah, you should not have gotten me anything," Elizabeth protested.

"It's from one of the boxes I got – there were such an abundance of them this year I could hardly believe it," said Sarah. "Please, I would like for you to have them, ma'am."

Elizabeth opened the package to find an exquisite pair of lilac kid gloves and once again protested that Sarah should keep them for herself. It was only after much convincing by Sarah that she came to understand just how many boxes Sarah had received this year – it seemed every milliner and modiste in London was attempting to gain Sarah's approval on her mistress's behalf – and that it meant something to Sarah, that she could give her mistress a Christmas present. So Elizabeth thanked her maid deeply, and agreed when Sarah proposed the gloves would be just perfect with Elizabeth's yellow muslin day dress.

Elizabeth came to see more evidence of Sarah's generosity throughout the day. Sawyer and Browning both wore dresses newly trimmed with very pretty ribbons, Mrs. Reynolds had a fine new fichu, and when Elizabeth complimented her on it and Mrs. Reynolds confirmed its source, she also told her mistress that all of the maids had received new stockings.

It was Brigid – quiet, simple, honest Brigid – who helped Elizabeth understand the complete scope of Sarah's boxes, however, when she came to help Sarah change her mistress that evening. Brigid was wearing a very pretty new shawl, and when Elizabeth complimented her on it, the girl whispered, "It's-from-Sarah's-boxes-ma'am. They was stacked all the way to the ceiling in her room, ma'am! And she got a big one from Mr. Green with a note of apology in it."

"Did you indeed?" Elizabeth asked Sarah.

"Aye, ma'am. He apologised and said I and my family would be welcome to visit his store at any time," Sarah replied. "I don't think he's changed in his heart, but he made clear he won't be saying anything like what he did that day."

"I doubt his heart has changed either," said Elizabeth, "but I expect his purse has been feeling the lack of patronage from Pemberley. Perhaps we should make a visit in the next few days and see how you and Brigid are treated."

"Yes, ma'am, I think so," said Sarah.

They went, three days later, Sarah and Brigid wearing the fruits of a great many boxes and only kept from being exactly as fashionable as their mistress by Sarah's restraint. Mr. Green lavished his attention on the three of them, full of politeness and compliments for all, and to reward him Elizabeth bought several things she did not need.


	58. Part 2, Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

All of Mary's family – Mary's _living_ family – save the Ramseys and the other Stantons, came to Wincham in time for the birth. Had Lydia not passed from the same event, Mary thought it likely they would not all have bestirred themselves, but it was impossible to ignore the risk, now, impossible to forget that this might be their last chance to be together. And thus it was only those who needed to remain at Stanton Hall who did not come, and everyone of that party who was old enough to write had sent along a letter of well-wishes for Mary.

The parsonage had been large enough to hold everyone when Marianne was born, but the Darcys, knowing the size of the nursery and the rambunctious age of their boys, had rented a large set of rooms within the Red Lion, custom which must have pleased Mr. Johnson greatly. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy came to call for a great many hours every day, and during this time Mrs. Padgett usually took Bess over to the inn to play with the children nearer her age, giving Marianne and Emma the delights of playing together uninterrupted, play that usually involved ribbons and the kittens.

It was on the second day of this that Lady Winterley came to call upon them, welcoming Mary's family to the neighbourhood and asking if there was anything else Mrs. Stanton needed before the impending birth. There was not, and so they all sat around the parlour making such conversation as could be had between people who had not seen each other in years.

"I understand," said Lady Winterley, once they had exhausted the weather and state of the roads, "that you were recently blessed with another granddaughter, ma'am."

She had addressed Mrs. Bennet, and for a moment that woman's eyes looked deeply troubled. Then she rallied, however, and rallied impressively. "Oh dear Lord, yes! Gone off to America to visit my youngest with Captain Sir Matthew Stanton and Lady Stanton and never a word about being in the family way. Not one word, my lady! Would you imagine my surprise when they finally returned and Captain Ramsey sent word that she was to have her confinement at Stanton Hall, for she couldn't be moved farther? What a shock to my nerves, I tell you! We travelled there and we missed the birth of the child, but we've been with them these past few months and she is a dear little girl. A dear, sweet little girl, just like her mother."

Lady Winterley responded to this monologue with well-bred expressions of happiness for the Bennets, Ramseys, and especially this little girl, and took her leave a few minutes later, when her quarter-hour was up. After she had left, Mrs. Bennet looked about the room to all of them and quietly – as quietly as she was capable of – asked, "How did I do?"

"Mama," said Elizabeth, "Sarah Siddons could not have performed better. You were perfect."

Upon hearing this, Mrs. Bennet quite understandably burst into tears.

* * *

Later that night, Mary laid awake in bed. She was worried. Not for herself, even after what had happened to Lydia, but for her baby. The child had seemed to move in the same ways Marianne had, seemed to kick with the same vigour, and yet even with all of these signs, still Mary worried, and thought she would until the babe was born and they could see whether it was truly healthy.

David was still awake beside her and he shifted, turning on his side to face her. They had repaired so much of their marriage, had returned almost entirely to their happy life within the parsonage, but this was the one thing that could not be repaired by man and woman: it was in God's hands.

He fumbled through the bedlinens and clasped her hand. "We'll know soon."

"Not soon enough. I loathe this waiting and worrying."

"Then I will pray again that the birth comes quickly, and you are both healthy."

He did so aloud, and Mary let his voice wash over her, tried to let it soothe her worries. They could not be assuaged, but at least his voice was so melodious as to lull her into sleep.

It seemed the prayer was effective, for as she stood to step away from the table at breakfast, Mary felt the first sharp pain in her midsection. She clasped the back of her chair and waited, not wanting to alarm everyone without cause, but when a second pain began she calmly said, "My labour is beginning."

She felt mostly calm, having done this once before, although that undercurrent of worry was still running within her. Soon they would _know_ whether Marianne had a healthy brother or sister, or one of the awful alternatives.

Clara was sent to fetch the midwife, and Charles to the Red Lion to retrieve the Darcys. These parties all arrived at the house and David, Mary, and the women sat in Mary's bedchamber, waiting quietly, or at least as quietly as they were able. Mrs. Bennet understood Mary's desire for calm, but she sat fidgeting in her chair, her countenance plainly fretful, afraid of losing another daughter. Somehow it touched Mary's heart that Mrs. Bennet should be so worried over _her_ , the middle daughter who had always seemed to be the forgotten one. Jane put her arm around her mother's shoulders and whispered something to her, and this seemed to do a great deal to soothe Mrs. Bennet's agitation.

Thankfully, Mrs. Bennet did not need to fret for long. Marianne's birth had been comparably easy, and this one was easier still. The most awful moment was that time after the child had emerged into Mrs. Potter's hands, that time of waiting, wondering: was the child dead, deformed? But then the babe cried and Mrs. Potter said, "'Tis a fine, healthy little girl."

This time it was Mary's turn to burst into tears. David brushed them away with his hand and gazed at her, his own eyes glassy. "All is well, now," he murmured. "What a happy family we will be."

The afterbirth came quickly, and all of one piece. After this Elizabeth ushered a copiously weeping Mrs. Bennet out of the room, taking her to the comforts of Jane, who had left when Mary's pains began in earnest. David approached, holding the child, and laid the infant down upon Mary's chest. She seemed a little smaller than Marianne had been, but perfectly healthy, with a sweet, peaceful little face.

"She's beautiful," murmured David, pulling a chair nearer the bed and sitting.

"She is," said Mary. "I would have settled for just healthy. God has answered all of our prayers – He is so good."

"He is," David replied. "It will be a fine thing for Marianne to have a sister, I think. Have you any thoughts of what you would like to name her?"

Mary _had_ thought on what she might name another daughter, many months ago, before she had feared her child might not live to be named.

"I had been thinking Elinor."

"Elinor? You are sure? Or – perhaps you merely like the name?"

"No, I choose it with intent," said Mary. To name a daughter _Isabel_ was too much of a reminder – certainly for her, and very likely for David – but _Elinor_ seemed the right way to honour the woman who had come before Mary.

"I am grateful, then, Mary – and it is very good of you to wish to do so. Elinor Stanton will be a fine name for her."

* * *

This being her second birth, Mary had known what to anticipate in those first weeks after Elinor entered the world, the exhaustion of the event followed by still more exhaustion in needing to feed the baby whenever she was hungry. Mary was grateful for the help of her servants, and that of Mrs. Bennet, who seemed to be throwing herself into every possible opportunity to be helpful, as a distraction from her grief. Mrs. Bennet's assistance was not always so calm or steady as Mary would have liked, but she felt she understood her mother better than she ever had before, and tried to remember to treat her mother with forbearance, thanking her often. Even Mr. Bennet lent his assistance, in keeping Marianne occupied for some hours of the day by reading to her – generally fairy-tales, although Mary did not begrudge either of them this at such a time. Indeed, she was grateful to Mr. Bennet, feeling a strange new softness in her heart towards her father as he sat there with his granddaughter comfortably ensconced in his lap and his glasses perched on his nose. He had not been a perfect father, and Mary had always seen his flaws more clearly than his good qualities – until now. Whatever else could be said about him, Mr. Bennet had always provided a safe home for his family, and now Mary knew to value this. Still more, both he and his wife had thus far been faultless as grandparents, and Mary was glad her daughters had them both in their lives.

Of course David helped as well, although as the weeks passed, he became occupied with his correspondence. The physical writing and reading of it took comparably little of his time, but it was clear his mind was occupied by it for great spans of his day. It was correspondence with his family, of course. Matthew was pleased that both mother and child were well, and passed on well wishes from Mary's brothers and sisters. Lord Stretford said all that was right and proper about the birth of his latest grand-niece, but reported that his brother drew ever-closer to publication of his book. Jacob Stanton reported that his wife was also in the family way and due to give birth in some months, and seemed inordinately pleased that Elinor had been a girl. When David reported this to Mary, it filled her with all of her old rage and then some, for she could not think Jacob harboured very Christian thoughts towards little William Stanton, if he still had some hope of fathering a baronet.

It was of course the letters from his father that troubled David the most. He had written to Mr. Stanton of his wife's successful delivery of another granddaughter, while making clear that Mr. Stanton would never be allowed to meet Elinor. Mary had some suspicion of what Mr. Stanton's response to this had been, but David did not share this with her.

"Nothing to trouble you with, at such a time," he said, when she asked if he wished to share.

So instead he troubled himself, until one night when he awakened Mary, for Elinor needed to nurse. She took up her child and gazed at his uneasy countenance. He dropped his eyes to avoid her gaze, but then raised them again.

"Mary, back at Pemberley, you offered that I could talk about my childhood. I think – I think I'd like to talk now, if you are not too tired."

"I am not too tired at all," stated Mary. She had a sense that somehow it was easier to talk of difficult things at such an hour, and although she was sleepy, it was important to her that David had finally offered to do so.

She was expecting an awful tale, and she got what she had expected. None of it was easy to hear, but when David finally reached the point where he broke down in tears, Mary followed him. This was when he spoke of his father's treatment of Matthew, and how helpless he had felt, as the elder brother, how he still thought back with guilt over whether there was more he could have done, to prevent it, to protect his younger brother.

"What could you have done? You were a child, too," said Mary. "He is a monster, and you could not help but be afraid of him."

David sighed, heavily, and wiped at the tears on his face.

"David – you could not do so for Matthew, but you stood up to him for Marianne, and now Elinor. I hope you will give yourself credit for that. You stopped him from harming another generation."

Tearfully, he nodded, and reached out with one long finger to touch Elinor's cheek. "I shall try to remember that, when the guilt encroaches."


	59. Part 2, Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

They remained in Wincham for Sarah. It is not a usual thing, of course, for an abigail to dictate the travels of such a family as the Darcys, but when said abigail is awaiting her baptism and the baptism is to be done by one's brother-in-law, an exception must be made. David had arranged all – a letter to his bishop, for someone of the bishop's choosing must query Sarah on doctrine to see whether she was ready for baptism as an adult. Unsurprisingly, the bishop chose David to do this examination, and a half-hour's conversation with Sarah had him stating that if she were a man, she might be ready to take orders.

Thus Sarah Kelly was baptised into the Anglican church in a quiet ceremony attended largely by the Darcys and their servants. The Bingleys came as well, because if there was a kind-hearted thing to do, the Bingleys were sure to do it, and while Mrs. Bennet had no notion of why they should all be so interested in a servant's baptism, Mr. Bennet came with them out of curiosity. Sarah seemed embarrassed at the turnout, performing her part with utmost solemnity. Elizabeth wondered what she would tell the Kellys, upon her return home.

That return came the day following: the Darcys had determined they should participate in some portion of the season before Elizabeth grew uncomfortably large, and they were eager for a little time at home before they travelled to town. They arrived in Pemberley's drive to find an unexpected group of servants awaiting them. The female servants were all lined up as usual, but the manservants were all gone save Richardson and Folger, who – not being used to forming part of the receiving line – were standing awkwardly off to the side.

Richardson approached the post-chaise opened the door himself, bowed, and said, "Sir, something's happened that I must tell you of."

"Shall we go to my study?" asked Darcy.

Richardson may have intended to tell only Mr. Darcy of whatever it was that had happened, but as Darcy held out his arm for his wife to take and showed every indication that she was to go thither and hear whatever it was Richardson had to say, the steward did not protest and threw out no hints that it was not a topic to be heard by a lady.

There was a fire burning in the grate – clearly Richardson had anticipated his master in this, at least – and they all sat around it.

"My apologies that all of the male servants are gone – they were helping to form search parties," said Richardson. "We've sent messengers out, though, to bring them back."

"Search parties? For what – or for whom?" asked Darcy.

"Mr. Sinclair, sir. He went missing two evenings ago, although nobody noticed he was absent until yesterday morn – it seems it was not unusual for him to be, erm, incapacitated somewhere within the house and so they all presumed he'd turn up in the morning, but then he didn't. They sent a man 'round yesterday evening to ask if we could spare some men for the search."

"And has he been found?" Darcy asked.

"Yes, sir." Richardson said. "Dead, with his gun beside him, caught in one of his own man-traps. I'm not sure whether it was too cold for him to survive the night, or he bled too much from the wound. But he's surely dead."

"Dead – Mr. Sinclair – you are certain?" asked Elizabeth.

"Yes, ma'am. Had word from Berewick an hour ago. There was no doubt he was gone."

Elizabeth exhaled sharply. Abigail was completely free, now, free of her husband's presence in the world, free even to remarry, if she wished. Elizabeth felt relief for more than just Abigail, however; the entire neighbourhood was free from Laurence Sinclair, including the Darcys. Elizabeth could feel no guilt for such a man, particularly when he had died in a trap of his own making. Yes, they had reached an uneasy détente with him, but now there was no need for it.

* * *

Laurence Sinclair got the same consideration in death that he had given others in life, which is to say very little. The Darcys first went over to the house after Richardson had informed them of Sinclair's death, and found the place in some degree of upheaval, without anyone to authorise the servants as to what should be done. Given the choice between Sinclair's estranged wife and his estranged stepmother, the latter was plainly the most logical choice. The elder Mrs. Sinclair – Elizabeth supposed they were both dowagers, now – had run the house for many years and run it successfully, and the Darcys were not even certain whether the younger Mrs. Sinclair would come. They had sent a message to Clareborne immediately, but Elizabeth had endeavoured to make clear that a legally separated wife should feel no compulsion to attend the funeral, or anything else.

Abigail did come, with the Bingleys, but only two days after Mrs. Sinclair had arrived with all the natural authority of her history in the house. Those servants who had not been there during her tenure subjected themselves readily enough to her direction, a result of her natural kindness mixed with firmness, and the excellent character given to her by those who had been there when she was mistress. Abigail was plainly pleased with this arrangement, for it meant she could stay at Pemberley, in the comforts of her friends.

Elizabeth had not been sure whether Abigail would wish to see the body of her late husband, but after the travellers had taken tea in the parlour to restore them after their journey, she asked Elizabeth and Jane if they would go up with her. They had opted to leave everything to Ainsley and his people, and the women had already cleaned Laurence Sinclair and dressed him in a shroud. He seemed strangely peaceful, to Elizabeth; with his eyes closed and the power of speech gone from him, he looked just as any other sleeping man might.

"He's truly gone," whispered Abigail. "I will never have to see him again on this earth."

Elizabeth laid her hand on her friend's shoulder. "Yes. You are free. You could even remarry now, if you wish."

Beneath her hand, Elizabeth felt Abigail shudder slightly. "I shan't ever remarry. I know there are happy marriages, such as the two of you have, but I also know what it is to be trapped in a marriage." Abigail's eyes filled with tears. "I am done here. I just wanted to see he was truly gone."

"Come, let us go back to Pemberley," soothed Jane. "You have been very brave to come and see him one last time, and you'll feel better after a nice restorative cordial and some rest, I am sure."

They all rode back to Pemberley, therefore, Abigail in the Bingleys's carriage, which left Elizabeth and her husband free to converse.

"How was your friend, in seeing him?" he asked.

"Relieved, the same as all of us, although I suppose our relief could never match hers. Even though they were legally separated, I think she still felt his shadow within her life, even at Clareborne," said Elizabeth. "Is it wrong to thank God for a man's death? For I am desirous of doing so."

"I do not know," he replied. "How much of what happens in the world is because of God's will, and how much comes from men's choices? Did Laurence Sinclair die because he chose to wage war on poachers? Or did he die because God found him to be an unworthy man? I do not think we will ever know, but I am sure the world is a better place without him in it."

"I share your certainty." Elizabeth laid her hand on his cheek. "After all the difficulties he caused between us, please do not doubt that I am conscious of – "

He drew his hands along her throat and down to her chest, touching the pendant there. "I do not regret those difficulties. Yes, it was a difficult time for both of us, but we are stronger for it – we understand each other better for it. If there is one thing I am grateful to Laurence Sinclair for, it is that."

Elizabeth could think of no words to respond to his statement, but it was not a time for words. She laid her hands on his cheeks and kissed him deeply, wholly in agreement with what he said: they had been tested, but they were the stronger for it.

* * *

Berewick's steward had located Laurence Sinclair's will, but they had felt it proper to wait until his brother arrived to read it. Colin Sinclair arrived four days after his brother's death and showed that his manners had been no anomaly, when they had seen him last. He could not entirely avoid letting his present self-interest slip, but none could fault him for wishing to join the landed gentry, particularly when he was the best candidate for Berewick they could think of. Enough time had passed for Abigail to be certain she was not with child, and so if Laurence had not left the estate to his brother, it was likely to have gone to one of his friends.

The reading of the will proved that he had indeed left it to his brother, however, so long as there were no legitimate children of his body living. Elizabeth heard Darcy exhale sharply in relief upon the word _legitimate_ and quickly realised why – it would not have been at all surprising for a man like Laurence Sinclair to have some number of natural-born children, but the difficulties of proving such a claim would likely leave the estate's future uncertain for years.

A woman's certainty that she was not with child and _legal_ certainty that she was not with child were two very different things, so it would be some time before Berewick formally belonged to Colin Sinclair, but as all of the parties in the drawing-room agreed that he should take up stewardship immediately, the estate's near- and long-term future was amicably settled. Darcy offered his assistance as Colin Sinclair took up a role he had never expected to hold, and it was gratefully accepted.

The Darcys, Bingleys, and Abigail Sinclair returned to Pemberley after this, and Elizabeth went up to change out of her grey gown into one of cheerier green. She had been neglecting the household accounts in all that had happened and had told Darcy she intended to work on them before rejoining their guests, so it was not entirely a surprise when she opened the door to her study and found her husband within.

"You are making good progress in here," he stated, the corner of his mouth struggling not to quirk into a smile. He was seated upon the newest piece of furniture within, a patent reading chair just as it had appeared in Ackermann's Repository, although the greater progress was in the paper upon the walls, which had been installed while they had been at Wincham. "I begin to see your vision for the room."

"Do you indeed?" Elizabeth grinned. "The rest of the furnishings shall have to wait until our trip to town, so it will be some time more before you can see its completion."

"I anticipate it eagerly," said he.

"Was it merely for the pleasure of my company that you came to be here?"

"Alas, you have found me out. I wished to show you this piece of correspondence I received."

He rose from the chair and handed her a letter, and Elizabeth opened it to read:

"Darcy,

"I received word of Mr. Sinclair's death. We will of course wish for the proper amount of time to pass, but I hope you will confirm for me that – when the time is right – you are still willing to take a place within the magistrancy of the county.

"Yr. most humble and obedient servant,

"DEVONSHIRE"

"Fitzwilliam Darcy, Magistrate," said Elizabeth. "Yet another reason Sinclair's death will benefit the county."

"I am grateful to have his support for the post. I have no taste for that sort of politicking."

"Perhaps His Grace now understands that the sort of man who best serves the post is the one who is not politicking for it."

"It remains to be seen whether I am any good at the post."

"Oh no – none of that, my dear. A man who is everything fair and just and good will make as good a magistrate as any the county has ever seen," said Elizabeth, taking up his hand. "I should not have told you not to share your doubts, though – they are natural, at such a time. And I do not think you share your doubts with many people."

"I do not share them with anyone else but you," he murmured, drawing her into an embrace.

They had a quiet evening, Elizabeth feeling perhaps more pleased and content than she should have, when such a state was the direct result of a man's death. But it was impossible to quell these feelings, nor did she want to, and therefore she felt the contrast deeply when Sarah came to change her, for Sarah's spirits seemed tremendously downcast. It Sarah who decided when Brigid should aid her, and it seemed on this evening she preferred to work alone, quickly and quietly. Elizabeth could see she was upset, however, and asked her what was the matter.

"Nothing to trouble you with, ma'am," was Sarah's response.

"Were your family unhappy about your baptism? Or is Mr. Green giving you more trouble? Or someone else in the village?"

Sarah blinked rapidly and swallowed before she spoke. "I'd – I'd rather not speak of it, ma'am. Please."

"I understand, but Sarah, you know you have my full support – in everything. If there is anything I can do to help you, please do not be shy in speaking of it."

Sarah burst into tears at this, and while Elizabeth wished to understand what had prompted such an outburst – she suspected strongly that it had to do with Sarah's formal change of religion – she did not question her maid further and instead reached out to embrace Sarah. Gingerly, Sarah leaned into her – dear Sarah, who had always felt the difference in their positions more strongly than Elizabeth wished for her to feel it – and Elizabeth hoped she was at least of some comfort.

* * *

The weather the next morning was brisk and windy, making even Flora restive, and Elizabeth cantered most of the way to Berewick at a goodly pace, intending to see if there was anything else the elder Mrs. Sinclair needed from Pemberley before the funeral the next day. Mrs. Sinclair greeted her in the entrance-hall, her countenance grave.

"I am glad you are come. We have been going through the estate records – Laurence made such a mess of them – and – and we found something you ought to see."

"Oh dear," murmured Elizabeth. "Should I send for Mr. Darcy?"

"I – I think it would be best if I showed it to you, first."

This was sufficient to put Elizabeth's stomach in a state of roiling queasiness as Mrs. Sinclair led her into the study of the Sinclair men and encouraged her to sit.

"We found this," said Mrs. Sinclair, handing a leathern folio over to Elizabeth. "It's – it's – I believe she is your aunt. You should keep it, when you are done. And please, my friend, know I bear her no ill will and I am committed to keeping her secret. She was conceived long before I was married to him – indeed I will be glad to see her again, to know she carries some of the best of him forward, just like my Clarissa – and Colin, too, I suppose. I have been so pleasantly surprised, with how he turned out."

Elizabeth thought in a rush of the letter from the secretaire at the Lake house, of her rush of panic upon seeing the name Madeline. _It could not be_ , her mind protested, and yet as Mrs. Sinclair left her to read the contents of the folio, Elizabeth saw very well that not only couldit be, it _was_.

Letters – correspondence with attorneys, the Robinsons, a school in Yorkshire, and Mr. Newton – detailed the steps that had changed an illegitimate baby girl from Madeline Robinson to Madeline Newton. The transition had been simple: she had left the Robinsons to go to boarding school, and she had entered that school as Madeline Newton, all the while with the plan to send her to Lambton as the orphaned niece of a successful tradesman. Mr. Newton and his wife were childless themselves and had anticipated gaining the child immensely, but poor Mrs. Newton had died before Elizabeth's aunt had come to live with them. Mr. Newton had doted on the child – this Elizabeth knew from her aunt's own stories. Whether Mrs. Gardiner could even remember having been called Madeline Robinson was doubtful, and Elizabeth wondered whether her aunt even knew she was illegitimate.

There were financial records, as well, showing two separate payments of two thousand pounds each made to the Robinsons, the regular payment of Madeline's tuition at the school, and the establishment of what appeared to be a dowry. There was nothing within the folio, though, that told of how much affection Mr. Sinclair had held for the girl, but surely affection must have been there – after all, he had taken great pains not only to pass her off as legitimate, but also to bring her to live within his own neighbourhood, where he could see her. There was certainly affection on Mr. Newton's part, however, for beyond the financial papers she found another letter on the matter to Mr. Sinclair, dated December 27, 1800:

"I cannot thank you enough for sending dear Maddie to me. It has made this Christmas so much less lonely than it would have been, without my Susan. I wish Susan could have lived to know her, but I am certain she is watching us with pleasure. I have not known many children, but Maddie is surely the sweetest-tempered girl that ever was. I do not believe she has had much affection until this point in her life, but she shall have it now; to the world I must be her uncle but you have my promise that I shall raise her as though she was my own child, and I only wish Susan was here to do the same. Maddie will feel the lack of a mother, I think, but I am of the hopes that a good governess may provide her with the female influence she needs."

He had succeeded in that, Elizabeth knew – her aunt still spoke with great fondness of her old governess. Elizabeth knew as well that he had succeeded in raising his Maddie like a daughter; Mrs. Gardiner had adored him, as she had her life in Lambton. Elizabeth had not known, though, that this adoration had come from knowing so little affection in her life before then.

Correspondence between the two men was sporadic, after this letter – although perhaps they had spoken of Madeline when they had met within the neighbourhood, precluding the need for it – but there were several letters regarding Elizabeth's uncle. Mr. Newton had taken his niece to town while he attended to some business there, and the two had met and taken an instant liking to each other. As the courtship progressed, Mr. Newton and Mr. Sinclair had both been well-pleased by it. A man successful in trade was just the sort of respectable match that would cement Madeline's place in the world without reaching too high, and with evident affection on both sides, they were confident of Maddie's continued happiness.

Elizabeth felt a coldness strike her belly when she thought of her uncle. Her lovely, genial uncle – did he know? Had his wife kept such a secret from him all these years? Or did she even know herself? Deeply shaken at the thought, she tucked the folio within the coat of her riding-habit and left Berewick in stunned silence. She looked so shaken that Thomas asked her if she was well enough to ride back to Pemberley, but she said that she was, although she would rather hold the horses to a walk. It was a long ride back, therefore, Elizabeth contemplating with shock all she had learned, thinking with trepidation that she must tell her husband that one of the few connections she had been proud to bring to their marriage had such a history.

Feeling very strange to be doing so, she knocked on the door to her husband's study. Although he was aware of this new boundary his wife had instituted, it seemed Darcy was not expecting her to be the person who entered upon his inviting them to do so, still less her appearance.

"Elizabeth – good God, what is the matter?" he asked, jumping up from his chair behind the desk and rushing to her, to clasp her hands. "Is it something with the baby?"

"No, no, the baby is fine. It's – it's my aunt Gardiner."

"Is she ill? We can go to town immediately, if you wish."

Elizabeth had feared it would be difficult to broach the subject, but with such solicitude she found it easier to tell him, although still she did so haltingly, "No, she is not ill. She is – you recall the letter we found, about Sinclair's natural daughter – Madeline Robinson?"

"I do – was she your aunt, then?"

"She was – how did you – "

"I had considered the possibility, although I did not wish to cast doubts without any certainty. Madeline is a common enough name, but not one of the most common," he said, squeezing her hands tight. "Elizabeth, this changes nothing of how I think of your aunt. Indeed, if anything, I esteem her even more for being a relation of a dear friend of mine."

At this, Elizabeth burst into tears and sought his embrace. It was readily given, and they stood there silently, Elizabeth feeling the reassurance of his arms, of his lips gently touching the top of her head.

"There is something else that is good of this, I think," Darcy said. "If such a secret could be kept about your aunt for so many years, it bodes well for little Catherine."

"I had not thought of that. But now the Sinclairs know the secret – there is a chance it will become known more broadly."

"Sinclair's relations will respect his wishes, I am sure, just as they respected him."

"Mrs. Sinclair promised to do so, but what of Colin?"

"I believe he will. He has behaved honourably now for too long for it to be a mere act."

Elizabeth nodded. "I must speak to my aunt of it – I do not even know how much she knows. They met, when she was in the neighbourhood as our guest, but I do not ever recall him giving her particular attention, or her the same to him."

"Nor were you looking for it, though."

Elizabeth replied that this was true. "I – I shall have to keep it from Jane, for now. Until I speak to my aunt, it would be wrong to spread the news further within our family."

"I know that will not be easy for you, with her in the house, but I agree you should wait for your aunt's authorisation before you speak to it of anyone else, even Jane."

"I loathe secrets," whispered Elizabeth. "How did I end up in a position to have a secret about my aunt that I must keep from Jane, and another secret Jane and I hold, that must be kept from Mrs. Gardiner?"

"I wish we lived in a world where there was no need for secrets, but I fear we do not," stated Darcy. "Do not forget that you hold these secrets because you wish to protect those they affect, though."

"Thank you for that. It is a very helpful philosophy." Elizabeth laid her head on his shoulder, not yet willing to leave the comforts of his embrace. She did eventually, laying her hand on his cheek and kissing him gently, thanking him for being himself, his wonderful self.

"I have news for you as well," he murmured, "although mine is far more mundane: John Burton is leaving our service. He took a position as head coachman at Widdling Hall."

"You are disappointed by this," Elizabeth stated.

"I am – of course I should not be. I understand his desire for immediate promotion, but I had always thought of him as Marshall's heir apparent."

"Not Powell?"

"No. Powell is an excellent driver and knows his horseflesh, but organisation and accounts are not his strong suit, nor discipline – at least when it comes to people. John – or Burton, I suppose he shall be soon, had the potential to manage all of these things well. My consolation is that Marshall is still some years from retirement, so it is not an immediate concern. Thomas is a good whip and near enough to ready for promotion, so Marshall shall just need to find a new groom to fill his place."

Darcy smiled faintly after he spoke, but Elizabeth could see the departure still troubled him. The Darcys paid and treated their servants well and promoted from within whenever possible, and as a result their staff had proven exceedingly loyal to the family. It was rare for a servant to leave, and this particular departure had thrown apart Darcy's plans for succession in his stables, a part of the estate he cared deeply about. He would find a solution when the time came, she was certain, but for now it troubled him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I have some work to do on the Mrs. Gardiner dates but wasn't able to rework them within this draft...


	60. Part 2, Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

Laurence Sinclair was buried on a cold, drizzly February morning, with those mourners from the neighbourhood who should be expected to turn out for the death of the master of Berewick Hall. None, Darcy said, had seemed to be there for the man himself; not one of his supposed friends from town had troubled himself with the journey, even Abigail's cousin.

With this event done, Elizabeth could look with happy anticipation to their trip to London, for not only would she see her friends there, but Georgiana had written that they had agreed little Catherine Ramsey should be weaned, so therefore she and Matthew could join them for a little while after the by-election for Bishop's Barrow. Jane and Charles had also decided to travel with the Darcys and stay for some weeks; Elizabeth had been of the hopes that Abigail could be convinced to come with them and enjoy some of the frivolity that had so long been lacking within her life, but Abigail had made clear she was not ready for frivolity. Although she had been legally separated from her husband, she still felt the need to hold some period of mourning, and Elizabeth thought this was more because she wanted the time to quietly reflect on that period of her life than a concern over what society would think if she did not mourn. The Bingleys had only been willing to leave her when Abigail's reassurances that she actually wished for some time alone had been mixed with the reassurances of the Kinsleys, who were not intending to go to town until later in the season and promised to look in on her and ensure she was well and not too lonely.

That night, Elizabeth was thinking happily of the delights of town – the elder boys were surely old enough to enjoy Davis's Amphitheatre by now, and she thought she might be able to manage a more staid dance or two, even in her present state. She and her husband were lying in that point of decision they reached often on February nights, that of having burrowed naked beneath all of the bedlinens for warmth after marital relations, and trying to determine whether to brave the cold long enough to find their nightclothes.

"You seem very pleased tonight, my dear," said Darcy. "I suppose it is a relief to be completely done with Laurence Sinclair."

"Oh, but my mind was more agreeably engaged, thinking upon our trip to town," his wife replied.

"That _is_ a more agreeable occupation, even for myself."

Elizabeth chuckled. "I want to take the older boys to Davis's, and I would like to attempt a dance at Almack's."

"Granted, and granted, although if you feel even the slightest bit overheated you must promise to tell me so we may step out."

"I shall," she replied. "I would also like to go to Vauxhall."

"Vauxhall? Truly?"

"Well, I would have preferred Ranelagh, but given it is no longer an option, I shall settle for Vauxhall."

"Ah – you seek to visit the old haunts of my parents."

"I do, is that very strange?"

"Not at all. Now that I think on it, I believe I would enjoy such a visit. If you like, we might even ask Lord and Lady Brandon to attend with us. I believe they would like a little visit to the past."

"Oh yes, let us do so," Elizabeth said, wriggling even closer to him and determining yet again that his naked warmth was preferable to whatever she might gain from her nightgown.

* * *

The Darcys had a rather strange request, before they made their departure. It came to them via Richardson, who reported that the Metcalfe's old mare had died, and poor Silas had been devastated. His father had approached Richardson and asked if Mr. Darcy could visit while riding one of his thoroughbreds, for he thought it would do much to cheer the boy.

Silas received a visit from two thoroughbreds, for both of the Darcys rode over to the Metcalfe farm, mounted on Peregrine and Flora respectively. It was clear the boy had been told of the hour to expect their call, for despite the winter chill he was waiting at the farm's gate, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He brought his hands to his face in delight upon sighting the two horses cantering down the lane, and Elizabeth smiled to see it.

They came to a halt at the gate and Silas opened it, his parents coming out of the house to greet them. The boy was staring at Peregrine, his eyes seeming as wide as the filly's as the two regarded each other, boy and horse.

"Silas, this is Peregrine, Kestrel's daughter," said Darcy, in as soft a voice as could be managed in the February breeze.

"Peregrine," stated Silas, still rocking back and forth between his feet. "Who's her dam?"

"Hazel."

"Peregrine by Kestrel out of Hazel. Kestrel by King Fergus out of Teasel – " Silas continued reciting the filly's bloodline, back to Eclipse and the Darley and Godolphin Arabians, as Darcy jumped down from her back.

"Pet her?" asked Silas, his eyes hopeful.

"You may, but carefully – she is very skittish," said Darcy. He stroked the filly's neck as Silas approached and held out his hand for the filly to smell. Gone was the boy's nervous shifting – he was entirely intent upon the filly – and he turned his hand up to begin stroking her muzzle, still gazing into the filly's eye. Peregrine leaned her nose into his hand, just slightly, but enough for an expression of astonishment to cross Darcy's countenance. "Silas, will you hold her while I assist my wife down? And then if you would take Mrs. Darcy's mare, Flora, to stand in the barn and then walk Peregrine while Mrs. Darcy and I speak with your parents, we would be most grateful."

The boy nodded solemnly and took up the filly's reins. It was Elizabeth's turn to be astonished, both because they had not planned to linger, and that Darcy would entrust Silas with such a charge. Darcy helped his wife down from the side-saddle, she grimacing at the tautness of her riding habit when it came to her belly. When Flora was given over to Silas, he gained a sudden interest in her, and Darcy was required to tell the boy of her bloodline before he would walk her into the barn. He emerged a few minutes later, all of the awkwardness returned to his gait until he clasped Peregrine's reins in his hand and clucked to her to walk with him.

The Metcalfes surely sensed the strangeness of this change in plans as well, but they were gracious as the Darcys entered their home, Mrs. Metcalfe rushing to put on a kettle for tea and Mr. Metcalfe encouraging his landlord and lady to sit at the kitchen table. He joined them, as did his wife a minute later.

"Thank ye so much for comin' today, sir, ma'am," said Mrs. Metcalfe. "It means the world to Silas, it does."

"It's been hard on the boy, since ol' Nellie passed," said Mr. Metcalfe.

"It wouldn't be so hard on him if ye'd buy another horse," replied his wife, in a tone that made clear this was not the first time the topic had been raised between them.

"It don't make sense to buy another horse now," Mr. Metcalfe replied. "All that cost 'a feedin' it an' nothin' to show for it. I'll buy one when it's time for ploughin', but we can't just go throwin' money about after those bad years, Agnes."

Tears formed in Mrs. Metcalfe's eyes, but she looked ready to argue her corner until Darcy spoke:

"I – your son has a true gift, with horses. I had come here today intending to ask if I might pay you to board one of mine, Seagull, while your barn is empty."

"That's kind of ye, Mr. Darcy, but we don't want char'ty," said Mr. Metcalfe.

"I am glad, for having seen Silas with Peregrine, it is now something else entirely I would like to offer, Darcy said. "I have a position open for a groom."

"Aww, sir, it's kind of ye to even think 'a such a thing, but surely you've seen Silas ain't like other boys," said Mr. Metcalfe. "He's good at carin' for horses, sure, but he can't live away from home."

"He would not need to. He could be paid board wages and continue to live here."

"Pemberley stables ain't far from here, love," said Mrs. Metcalfe, her countenance filled entirely with hope. "I could walk him over every morn."

"Agnes, d'ye really think he could get by without us all day? Fer I don't."

"He could if he was carin' for horses – particularly for _those_ horses. Peregrine and Gannet and Kestrel an' all the rest he's always on about. Although I don't suppose he'd be allowed to care for Kestrel."

"He certainly would," stated Darcy. "Kestrel and Peregrine, and some of his other foals, are very sensitive animals. They require an understanding touch, and Silas has it."

The kettle began to whistle, and Mrs. Metcalfe rose from the table to tend to the tea, returning with a weak brew served in chipped cups. The Darcys drank it anyway.

"Why do we not try it for a time and see whether he suits?" asked Darcy. "If nothing else, it will give him some time with my horses, until the time is right for you to purchase another plough horse."

"Silas won't want to go back to no plough horse," predicted Mrs. Metcalfe. "Not if he's carin' fer thr'breds."

"I hope you are right," stated Darcy. "Bring him around to the stables at ten tomorrow, if that suits?"

"Anytime that's convenable for you would suit, sir," she said. "Silas an' I'll be there."

The Darcys finished their tea and they all stepped back outside, where Silas and Peregrine were walking up the drive, the boy reciting the filly's bloodline to her, and she evidently listening, for her ear was cocked towards him.

"Silas," said Mrs. Metcalfe, "Mr. Darcy has something he'd like to ask ye."

"Silas, I would like to know if you would be willing to try coming to work as a groom, at Pemberley stables. You would help care for Peregrine and Kestrel, and some other of his sons and daughters – some very promising yearlings among them."

Silas halted. Peregrine halted. Silas gaped at Mr. Darcy in such a fashion that Elizabeth thought he had not at all comprehended the question, until he said, "Go now?"

"No, Silas, tomorrow morning. Your mother will bring you," said Darcy, approaching and taking Peregrine's reins from him. "Would you be so good as to go and retrieve Flora from the barn?"

Silas swayed off and returned with Flora, also informing her of her bloodline as they walked. Darcy thanked the boy and handed him a shilling, then helped his wife back into the saddle and led Peregrine over to a large stone beside the drive, using it as a mounting block. As he mounted, Silas stared at the coin in his hand in consternation, then handed it to his mother.

"I shall see you tomorrow, Silas," Darcy said. "I will introduce you to Kestrel."

"And the yearlings?" asked Silas.

"Yes, and the yearlings."

"You had better be sure you recall all of the yearlings' bloodlines, before tomorrow," said Elizabeth, smiling at him as they regained the lane. "You never pass on the opportunity to do a good thing, do you?"

"This is even less charity than it was to bring Jemmy on as an assistant to Jasper. I could search the whole county and not find a boy Peregrine would trust so immediately."

"Just because it is useful to _you_ does not preclude its being a good thing. And while you see the potential in Silas, I expect there are a great many landowners who would never consider hiring such a boy, with his – his idiosyncrasies."

"That, I fear, is true. Men can be harsh judges, whenever anyone is different. Horses judge too, I suppose, but they judge on different characteristics," Darcy said, patting his filly's neck.

* * *

Elizabeth truly had no business in attending Silas's interview, as it were, at the stables. She went anyway, out of sheer curiosity, telling herself she might keep Mrs. Metcalfe company while the boy was speaking with Darcy and Marshall.

Marshall had not proven particularly enamoured of the idea, and his countenance was still doubtful when Mrs. Metcalfe and Silas entered the stables. It took them a long time to make it to where the Darcys and Marshall stood, for he swayed heavily as he walked and gaped at every horse they passed. Marshall watched this dubiously, and he was still more dubious when Silas had to be directed by his mother to greet the Darcys and shifted rapidly from foot to foot as Marshall was introduced to him.

"Come, Silas, let me show you Kestrel," Darcy said. The boy's eyes widened in response, and he followed Darcy down the aisle to the loose box in which the stallion now lived. The top half-door was open, Kestrel watching his master's approach with both of his ears pricked forward and his nostrils flaring, eyeing the boy beside him curiously. As he had with Peregrine, Silas held his hand out for the stallion to sniff, and then began gently stroking his muzzle.

Marshall suddenly looked much less dubious, but still he reacted with concern when Darcy took up a brush from the tack box beside the stall wall and handed it to Silas, telling him to go in and brush the stallion.

"Sir, maybe he should start with another one first – Gannet maybe, or one of the hunters, or Flora. Yes, Flora is just the horse to start him with."

Elizabeth smiled a little at the thought that her dear mare was clearly the one Marshall thought to be the best-behaved thoroughbred in the stables, but returned to a concern that nearly equalled Marshall's when Darcy said if Silas could handle Kestrel, he could handle any horse. He then directed Silas that Kestrel should not be tied for this – there was too great a risk of his spooking and doing himself injury, so Kestrel, Peregrine, and certain yearlings like them were never tied. If it was necessary, one groom would hold them while the other did what was needed, but Kestrel rather liked to be brushed, and would stand for it so long as he trusted the person doing the brushing, and that person's touch was gentle.

Silently and slowly, Silas opened the lower half-door to the stallion's stall, Kestrel backing away as he did so and eyeing the boy warily, his nostrils flaring again. Once again, Silas approached with his hand to smell, and then let the stallion sniff the brush for good measure. He stroked Kestrel's cheek with his hand and then slowly began to brush the horse's neck. His pressure was gentle, but apparently very much appreciated by the stallion, for he arched his neck and began to wiggle his lips in very clear signs of pleasure. As for Marshall, he watched all of this with his mouth hanging open, looking very much like a carp that had just been pulled from the lake.

Marshall's jaw slowly returned to a more natural position as Silas continued to brush the stallion. Seeing that his demonstration had been sufficient, Darcy asked Silas to come back out, telling him he could finish later, after Mr. Marshall showed him around the stables. Silas continued brushing Kestrel, looking entirely disinclined to leave, and Mrs. Metcalfe said in an abashed tone that once Silas started on a task, it was nigh impossible to get him to stop it until he finished.

"Usually that won't be an issue, ma'am," said Marshall.

Eventually, Silas was coaxed out with the promise of seeing the yearlings, and the Darcys left him walking thither with Marshall and his mother, Marshall reciting their bloodlines. Elizabeth reached down and clasped her husband's hand.

"How did you know, that he could do what he just did?"

"I cannot say that I knew. I felt, rather than knew."


	61. Part 2, Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

Georgiana had never had anything to do with a Parliamentary election before, and were it not for her unique role within the neighbourhood, she might not have had anything to do with this one. Lord Stretford and Andrew arrived late in the evening, and it was agreed among them that both Matthew and Georgiana should go out to introduce Andrew to the villagers the next morning, the villagers being more familiar with Georgiana. The Ramseys would remain at Stanton Hall, having no business in the village beyond the christening of little Catherine, a quiet event that had taken place a week previously, when young Catherine Ramsey's first record of existence in the world had been scrawled into the parish register by Rev. Bittlesworth.

Not that it truly mattered, of course. Upon noticing that Georgiana seemed nervous about the election, Lord Stretford had said, "Do not fret, child. Nothing easier in the world than a by-election for a pocket borough."

They went out the next morning, Georgiana and Matthew on their usual mounts and Lord Stretford and Andrew on the hacks the Taylors had purchased in advance for their inn. The horses – as well as four post-horses – had been living in the Stantons's stables, but the men still insisted on paying for their hire.

Lord Stretford had been right about its being easy, for the most part. Georgiana and her housekeeper, Mrs. Rodney, had made up baskets for each of the seventeen people who had a vote, baskets filled with the particular delicacies of each of the Stantons's present three cooks, and Murray followed behind them driving the waggonette filled with these baskets. At the cottages and businesses of each of the voters, Georgiana would carry in a basket, the tenant would thank her graciously, and Georgiana would introduce Andrew as her cousin, who was running for Parliament in the by-election. There was no other candidate and the tenants knew this, so they nodded knowingly upon meeting Andrew, who did at least make a genuine effort to talk with them and understand their concerns before they would all move on to the next establishment.

There were exceptions, of course. Mr. Smythe, the blacksmith, was a very kind man and a very good smith, but his understanding was quite weak. Upon Georgiana's introducing her cousin, Lord Fitzwilliam, as the candidate for the by-election, Mr. Smythe scrunched up his face and said,

"But how can a Lord be a'runnin' for the Commons, milady? I don' know much 'bout Par'ment but I knows the Commons is for people who ain't Lords."

"Technically the Lord of my family is my father, the Earl of Brandon," said Andrew. "Lord Fitzwilliam is a courtesy title I use as my father's eldest son, because my family has no secondary titles. My status so far as Parliament goes is that I may serve in the Commons until such time as I succeed to my father's title."

Mr. Smythe looked as though he comprehended some portion of this, although by no means all of it, and then he said, "Nobody who's name's Lord never said more'n two words together to me a'fore, milor', an' it's right kind of ye to be ax'splainin' it so."

The most notable exception, though, was not nearly so kind as Mr. Smythe. They saved Mr. Tilley of the inn for last, knowing he would be the most obstinate. Georgiana had only set foot in the inn once before, to tell Mr. Tilley that the Stantons did not wish to renew his lease on the coming Lady Day, and while she usually felt perfectly comfortable going about her business with her tenants with either Bowden or Murray beside her, she had made both Matthew and Bowden come for that conversation. It was well she had; Mr. Tilley had reacted with such angry belligerence that both men had felt compelled to put themselves between Georgiana and the innkeeper.

The entrance-hall of the inn seemed even more squalid than it had before, when they entered. They found Mr. Tilley in the tap-room, in which the best smell was that of stale beer.

"What d'ye want?" he asked, scowling.

Georgiana set the basket on the nearest table and said it was for him, then introduced Andrew.

"I suppose ye want my vote, even though yer throwin' me out my inn," said Mr. Tilley.

"We do not need your vote, but thought it only fair to treat you as we have the other tenants," replied Matthew.

"You ain't treated me fair t'all," said Mr. Tilley. "Not since ye bought the great house an' took a set against me."

"We have kept our part of the lease," said Georgiana. "But we cannot have this inn continue to fail. It impacts everyone else in the village – Mr. Smythe, Mr. Burton, Mr. Wilkins, they particularly feel the lack of custom, but all suffer by this inn's failures."

"Why you —, I'll – "

Georgiana felt Matthew straighten still taller beside her before he said, "We need not justify ourselves to you. But you will recall that the terms of the lease require you to make available the common dining-room for the purposes of any Parliamentary election, and we will expect you to do so."

"An' what if my common dining-room's already booked, during that time?"

Matthew looked about the empty tap-room. "We are not fools, Tilley. You may hate us, but you would do best to take the money. We will pay for whatever your fellow villagers choose to order. I expect it's the most custom you will see this year."

Mr. Tilley grunted, but in a way that seemed to acknowledge what Matthew said, and they all took their leave.

"You read the lease," murmured Georgiana to her husband, as they were walking out.

"Pray try not to say it in the same tone you use when Caroline gets her letters correct as you quiz her," said Matthew drily. "If I am to keep the accounts, I should understand the terms of the leases."

"Yes – thank you," said Georgiana in a different tone entirely, reaching down to clasp his hand.

They regained their horses, and as they were riding back through the village, Lord Stretford said, "Do you believe there is any chance that fellow will be vindictive? For my first impression of him is that he would be the vindictive sort, and I wonder if perhaps it might be better if you pay him for use of the room but serve your own food and drink."

"You think he might try to poison us?" asked Georgiana, shocked at the idea.

"Well yes – you, particularly, but if he thinks the whole village is set against him, his revenge might be more extensive," said Lord Stretford. "You might even consider having some men stay there, to keep a watch on him until Lady Day. It might seem a little suspicious to him to suddenly have a string of seamen stopping over on their way to or from Portsmouth, but as you observed, Matthew, I do not think he can afford to refuse the custom."

"'Tis a good thought, uncle," said Matthew. "I'll send Hawke down to Pompey to recruit some men to do as you suggest, and to order wine and ale. I believe between all of them our cooks can manage the food – certainly much better than Tilley's kitchen could."

"I expect the ale will be far better, too, based on the smell of that place," said Andrew. "I will give your man money for the wine and ale, at the very least."

There followed the sort of argument about who was to pay for what that takes place amongst close, generous families, finally ending in the agreement of exactly what Andrew had proposed, that he fund the wine and ale, while the Stantons would provide the food.

They finished the ride companionably, once this was decided upon, and Georgiana considered what Lord Stretford had said about Mr. Tilley. She was glad of this idea to have seamen staying within the inn, keeping watch, for it seemed very possible that Mr. Tilley would endeavour to harm the property as his lease drew to a close. To harm his own fellow man, though, took something far more evil – to knowingly put something in his food or drink to cause illness, or even death. And yet Georgiana recalled with a start that even her own aunt had been capable of such evil. She shuddered and thought that if Lady Catherine could do so, Mr. Tilley certainly could as well.

She had a further reminder of humankind's capacity for evil that evening after dinner, for a messenger came in with an express for Lord Stretford. He read it grimly, and then looked up at his expectant companions.

"All of the men who had been intending to kill me have now been arrested, so I believe I shall sleep better tonight," he said drily.

Georgiana and Catherine gasped.

"All is well, and it was not just me – there were a great many of us. We were all to be decapitated at a dinner, but as you may have noticed, I have not been in London to be at a dinner. In truth, there was no dinner at all, but the conspirators were made to believe there would be one."

Lord Stretford read on, to the next page of his letter. "Ah, now here is an awful shame – a Bow Street Runner was killed, as they were making the arrests. I had been hoping this whole matter could be wrapped up without loss of life. Well, without loss of life save those who will be hanged for their role in it, but they have put their own heads in those nooses."

How strangely unflappable both father and son were, in certain situations. Georgiana had observed it often enough in Matthew, and yet again she saw where he had got it from.

"Wh – why did they want to kill you?" she asked.

"For the same reasons there is such unrest in so many places," said Lord Stretford. "In two days, we will have an election, and Andrew will represent Parliament for Bishop's Barrow, when there is no representative for all of Manchester, save those for the county. It is a system that is rotten to the core, and yes, I realise fully how hypocritical it sounds of me to say so. But I must use the system as it is in order to do any good for this country, and so I will, and I will be glad to have you join me, Andrew."

"I will be glad to join you as well, my lord." Andrew's countenance had a particular resolve as he said this, and a certain hint of contentedness. Lord Stretford had been right, that politics could give him something else to fill his life, a purpose in place of the wife he had adored. Georgiana thought guiltily then of his daughters, who must be without their father for greater portions of the year, but they had a happy home at Stradbroke with their cousins, and it seemed the best substitute for a mother's love was the warmth of a grandmother like Lady Ellen.

* * *

They had left an extra day before the election in chance there were some tenants they were not able to see that first day of canvassing, but since that had not been the case and the weather was fine, Matthew proposed they have a little sail on the renovated yacht. They did have a nice little sail, largely because Georgiana insisted on a genteel pace so that they could have a nuncheon down in the day cabin and then take their tea up upon the deck, to provide further warmth against the brisk Channel air beyond what greatcoats and a pelisse could give.

Captain Ramsey had come with them, while Catherine preferred to stay home with the baby, and Andrew Fitzwilliam was standing over with the two captains, endeavouring to learn enough to be of some assistance in sailing the ship. Lord Stretford had been standing silently beside Georgiana for some time, and finally spoke:

"You were very right that this was what Matthew needed. I am only glad you had a cousin who could so ably fill the role I had originally envisioned for him."

"Are you disappointed, that Matthew will not fill the seat himself?"

"No. I cannot deny that I would have liked to work more closely with him in that fashion, but Matthew is who he is as a result of the situation of his birth. I cannot make him otherwise, and I cannot be disappointed in him for it. In truth his naval accomplishments have likely done as much benefit for this country as your cousin and I ever will. Matthew deserves to live as he wants now, and I am grateful he has a wife who understands what that is – perhaps even better than he did himself – and was willing to make her own sacrifices to make it so."

"I do not see it as a sacrifice. I anticipate our future travels with pleasure."

"Not every lady would. If there is one thing your generation should claim for itself, it is that you married the right people."

"Most of us did," murmured Georgiana, thinking of poor Lydia Wickham.

* * *

Catherine wiped little Cate's face, brushing away the pap that had trickled from her mouth. The child had taken almost immediately to pap, for once she had been old enough to be fed directly from the basin they had begun giving her milk thus, and it had been the work of a day to fill it with pap instead and change her over. The baby had a good appetite and had drank it down just as she did milk.

She was a patient child, too, waiting as Catherine laid the flannel cloth down and then gathered her up tight in her arms. At this age, there was nothing the child liked better than a snuggle, to lay heavy against the chest of the woman she thought was her mother, feeling that mother's arms about her.

There were moments – times like these – when Catherine truly felt like the girl's mother, moments when this complete and utter trust Cate placed in her could not but make her feel like a mother. Before her was what she could expect from the future – little William tottering about the room with Dog his watchful shadow looking worried that he might fall, and Caroline bent over her horn-book, reciting her letters with fits and starts under Mrs. McClare's encouragement. Catherine would have all of that to come with Cate, and it would be Catherine and Andrew who praised her when she took her first steps, when she began to read. When she learned to say _mama_ and _papa_ , it would be them she referred to.

Catherine wore two rings now, her wedding band on her left ring finger, and a mourning ring on her right, made with Lydia's hair. She had vowed to wear it always, to always keep Lydia in her heart, and there were moments when that ring sat heavy on her hand, moments when she did not feel at all like Cate's mother. The worst had been when she had thought she would attend Cate's christening, and Georgiana had told her she could not, for she hadn't been churched. There was no need for Catherine to be churched, since she had not actually given birth, but the people of Bishop's Barrow would need to think she would be churched in Meryton, and the people of Meryton that she had been churched in Bishop's Barrow, and all of that had meant she must stay home. So she had sat there in the house feeling incredibly bereft, as though the child that had never been hers had been rightfully taken back. Sat there alone, without Andrew to comfort her, for his absence would have been deemed even stranger than her presence.

But then they had brought the baby home in a fit of tears, and found she wanted neither a fresh tailclout nor a basin of pap. What she had wanted was the arms that picked her up to soothe her, and within minutes of being held by Catherine, she had calmed entirely. Catherine had felt more like her mother in that moment than any other, and she had known then that such moments would come more and more frequently. Known it, and accepted it, saying a quiet prayer for Lydia as she did so but feeling just as much peace in that moment as the baby.


	62. Part 2, Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

The by-election for Bishop's Barrow went much as might be expected, with the villagers happy enough to be regaled by the food, ale, and wine provided for them, each standing when it was his turn to announce his vote for Lord Fitzwilliam, which was duly recorded by Rev. Bittlesworth. Mr. Tilley was last, and as might be expected he differed from the rest, for he stood and bellowed,

"I ain't votin' for who the likes of you tell me'a vote for. I cast me vote for – for – for John Wilkes."

"Wilkes has been dead these twenty years," murmured Lord Stretford drily. No-one saw fit to correct Mr. Tilley on his voting for a dead man, and thus Lord Fitzwilliam was elected as the new Member of Parliament for Bishop's Barrow, 16-1.

They all travelled to London the next day save the Ramseys, who departed for Longbourn. Even if it had not been for the children, Georgiana would have insisted her family should stay at Curzon Street, but Caroline was keenly anticipating seeing Emma Bingley again, and indeed as soon as the door to the house was opened by Miller, she stared up at the butler, put her hands on her hips, and asked, "Where's Emma? Pwease, I got to see Emma."

Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth were standing there behind him, and laughed heartily to hear this, Elizabeth saying she would take her and her bear-dog up so _Uncle Fitz_ could greet his sister. He did so, embracing her tight and saying, "I am so glad to see you, Georgiana, and under better circumstances."

"And I you. We shall have a lovely visit, I am sure of it."

Matthew had carried William in, but set the boy down to shake Fitzwilliam's hand firmly, the two men greeting each other with the same degree of understanding they had formed during that journey to Pemberley and within this house. Then Fitzwilliam encouraged them to come into the drawing-room and greet the Bingleys. William was taken up by Mrs. McClare so the adult Stantons could follow Fitzwilliam into the drawing-room.

Elizabeth rejoined them soon enough, reporting that Emma and Caroline were chattering away together, and William seemed to be settling in as well.

"I only wish the boys could be so happy here," said Elizabeth. "They were exceedingly unhappy to be leaving their ponies behind at Pemberley."

"Caroline would have been the same, but for all of her friends in town," said Georgiana. "Matthew or I shall have to take her to see Lady Amelia tomorrow, or we shall not hear the end of it. Perhaps you might like to come with us, Jane, and bring Emma. I am sure they would all get on well together."

"That sounds lovely," said Jane. "They shall want only Marianne to be a complete group. I wish she could come and join them, but of course Mary and David have firmer ties to home."

"The cousins, at least, should have chance to meet frequently at Pemberley," said Fitzwilliam.

It struck Georgiana then, how very lonely her childhood had been compared to Caroline's. It had not bothered her until she was older and had gone to school, had struggled to make friends, but she had grown up with a brother already gone off to school and no cousins her age. It had made those summers with Fitzwilliam and her cousins so much more valuable, but even then, they had all been so much older than her. She was glad Caroline – who seemed a far more social creature than either of her parents – would know so many cousins her age, as well as a brother who would eventually make her a playmate.

"We shall not have Mary and David's company, but I had word from Charlotte that the Averys are come to town as well, and the Smiths are staying with them. We must all settle a date for a dinner with them – and the Gardiners."

There seemed a strange cast to Elizabeth's countenance as she finished her statement, but this was not what Georgiana asked about, when she had a chance to pull her sister aside before dinner.

"Elizabeth," she said, "May I ask a favour of you? It's rather a large favour."

* * *

With Jane staying in the house with her, Elizabeth had been wondering how she might manage the needed tete-a-tete with Mrs. Gardiner. Georgiana's invitation that Jane and Emma should go to Cavendish Square, however, meant that she could slip out after they had departed. She would leave cards for her closest friends, to maintain the pretence of a morning of usual calls, but it was to Gracechurch Street that she went first. Her timing was good: her uncle had already gone out, and after she had warmly embraced her aunt and her cousins – how Susan had grown, since her aunt had seen her last! – the children were sent upstairs to return to their lessons, and Elizabeth and her aunt sat down in the parlour.

"I must admit I had thought Jane would be with you," her aunt said, pouring out two cups of tea.

"I am sure she will come tomorrow, or perhaps later today. Georgiana took Caroline over to Cavendish Square to play with another friend of hers, and invited Jane and Emma to go along." Elizabeth took a gulp of her tea. It was hot, stinging her tongue and throat. Now was the time to tell her aunt; she should not tarry. "In truth, I wished to speak with you alone."

"Oh dear, Lizzy, what is it?" her aunt asked, a look of deep concern on her countenance.

Elizabeth told her all. At first she spoke hesitantly, explaining just how she had come across the intelligence she was now to impart, but then gathering speed in an endeavour to simply have it all out, so that her poor aunt could react.

Mrs. Gardiner never appeared shocked, and when Elizabeth was finished, she said, "I knew most of what you have told me – the man I thought was my uncle told me, when I turned eighteen. I never knew who either of my parents was, though, and I am grateful you told me of my father." Her eyes filled with tears. "To think, I met him numerous times at Pemberley, and never knew. I wish he had spoken of it – I recall him being particularly friendly, but he seemed to be the sort of man who was genial to everyone."

"He was," said Elizabeth fondly. "I think he must have been so happy, to have a chance to see you all grown up and happily married, with children of your own – with his grandchildren."

"I think you are right. I am glad he had a chance to see them – to think, if we had not had the children come down after dinner – " she did not continue her thought, instead gazing at her niece. "Lizzy, I want you to understand that your uncle knew everything, at least everything that I knew. My – my uncle warned me against telling him, but I could not have it be a secret between us. You have my leave to tell Jane, if you wish, and of course she will not wish to keep it from her husband. I wish I could have told more of the family – I would not have wanted it to be a secret from you and Jane – but, well, your mother – "

"You would be surprised, at her capacity for keeping secrets," murmured Elizabeth before she could think better of it.

Her aunt gazed at her silently, appraising. "There is something else, is there not? Your behaviour at Christmas, and some others of the family, have led me to believe there is. But you need not tell me of it. I understand more than most of the need to keep a secret, and I suppose it must still be on your mind that I failed to keep your husband's."

Elizabeth bowed her head, embarrassed at how easily her aunt had guessed her thoughts, and what those thoughts had been.

"That particular secret had certain benefits in its being known, which I could see plainly enough. There are some secrets, though, which should always remain thus. I expect this is one of those."

"It is," said Elizabeth, "but how I loathe keeping it from _you_." And so she told her aunt of this, as well, of the secrecy involving another child within their family.

"You did the right thing, Lizzy, all of you. I am grateful that she will be brought up within family from the beginning – that she will not suffer a lonely childhood."

"As you did." Her aunt nodded silently and Elizabeth rose from her chair to go and embrace her, holding Mrs. Gardiner tight. "I am so grateful you are a part of this family, aunt. I love you dearly, and nothing shall ever change that."

"And I you, Lizzy. I hope this has not caused difficulties with your husband – with the connexion you unwittingly brought into _his_ family."

"No, not at all. He and I are perfectly agreed that we are glad to know you are the daughter of a man we both admired."

"How well you married, Lizzy. I think there could not be one man in a hundred of your husband's rank who would express such a sentiment."

"You are wrong, dear aunt. I think there is only one in this world."

* * *

Elizabeth was glad her aunt had given her leave to tell Jane; it had felt an unbearable secret to keep from her sister, even in the short time she had been required to keep it. Although her intent was strong, finding the opportunity to do so without anyone else in the room might have proven tricky. Poor little William Stanton's discomfort proved to be in Elizabeth's favour, however, for upon her return to the house she found Jane alone in the drawing-room; while Jane and Georgiana had been at Cavendish Square, William had realised he had a tooth coming in and it was a very painful thing indeed, and Georgiana was in the nursery, endeavouring to soothe him.

Even in this part of the house, the child's faint cries could be heard, but Elizabeth knew this would be her best opportunity to speak with Jane alone, and she seized upon it. Jane's smile was welcoming, as her younger sister entered the room, but Elizabeth's countenance must have made plain that something was amiss, for the smile rapidly faded.

Elizabeth sat beside her sister on the sofa. "Jane – there's something I need to tell you of. I am sorry I could not do so until now, but I wanted our aunt's leave to share this."

"Oh Lizzy – what is it? Is she ill?"

"No – no – nothing like that." Elizabeth sighed and told her sister of all she knew, from the letter the Darcys had found in the house at the Lakes, to the more substantial evidence found at Berewick, and then Mrs. Gardiner's corroboration of the things she knew of. At least in telling Jane of such things, she had no fear over her sister's reaction, for there was only one way dear Jane could react, which was to smile softly when Elizabeth finished her account and say,

"He must have cared for her very much, to bring her to live so close to him. I am so glad they had a chance to meet, at Pemberley. And Mr. Newton! Mr. Sinclair found just the right man to look after him – my aunt adored him. He was so like a father to her. Was she at all troubled, by what you told her?"

"I think she would have liked to have a chance to know Mr. Sinclair better," said Elizabeth. "But aside from that, she – and our uncle, thank God – already knew enough of her background to be undisturbed by those further details I shared with her."

"I am glad. It would have put you in a very difficult position, if such things were not known by her."

"She gave you leave to tell Charles." As Jane nodded, Elizabeth felt her own relief: there were some people too dear to her heart to keep secrets from, and in the course of the day she had unburdened herself of both of the ones that had disturbed her.

* * *

Countess Esterházy paid a call in return of Elizabeth's card the next day. It was not abnormally punctual for her, but Elizabeth also had the sense that she was not so punctual when it came to others. This was confirmed when the countess requested introductions to both of Elizabeth's sisters, who had been sitting in the drawing-room with her, the day's rain preventing a repeat of the Cavendish Square outing and William's tooth having broken through during the night, returning the household to peace and Georgiana to their company.

Georgiana might have been considered a useful connexion, by one whose husband was a diplomat, and indeed Countess Esterházy seemed already aware that Lady Stanton was Lord Stretford's niece. But a desire to know Mrs. Bingley could only come of observing Jane's form of kind, mild-tempered beauty, and liking it so well as to wish to be her acquaintance. Both ladies were encouraged to apply to the countess if they wished for vouchers for Almack's, and then she added,

"I had thought to be at home Thursday next, as well, and I wonder if you all might be available to dine with me beforehand. Mrs. Darcy will wish to leave before it becomes too much of a squeeze, I am sure, particularly in her condition, but this way we may have some conversation before the masses arrive."

Both Jane and Georgiana looked to Elizabeth with concerned expressions. This was not a small honour, that the countess had conferred on them; her at-home would be a coveted invitation merely to attend the latter part, still less to dine with the Esterházys. Yet it was also the evening of their planned outing to Vauxhall. That event had already naturally grown beyond Lord and Lady Brandon, for if they were to go the rest of the Fitzwilliams should also be included, as well as the couples staying at Curzon Street.

"I – fear we already have fixed plans that evening with our Fitzwilliam relations," said Elizabeth. "We are going on a little – nostalgic – outing to Vauxhall. Lord and Lady Brandon and my parents-in-law went to the old pleasure gardens often when they were courting. Perhaps, though, we can find another date that is amenable for those who were to go."

Countess Esterházy's eyes lit up. "Oh, but that sounds far more interesting. No-stal-gic, yes, absolutely lovely. I would love it very much if my husband and I might – join you?"

"You are welcome to come, if you wish."

"I wish it very much," said the countess, waving her hand dismissively. "My at-home can be moved easily enough. What fun we will have! I think we should dress up in the old style, like when your parents were courting – hoops and hair and all."

Her enthusiasm was infectious, particularly among Jane and Georgiana. Elizabeth felt it as well, although she felt a little reluctance over the growth of what she had intended to be an evening of quiet nostalgia. While ordinarily she might have been enthused over the idea of dressing in the old fashion, the present size of her belly precluded finding any sort of comfort in those dresses, and so she would need to be left out of that bit of the pleasure. Unless – perhaps there was still a chemise a la reine among Lady Anne's old dresses, up in Pemberley's attics. A servant would need to be sent for it straightaway, and in a post-chaise, if they were to have any hope of its returning in time. That servant would need to go through old Mr. Darcy's clothes as well, to find something for his son to wear. Elizabeth quirked a smile at the thought of Darcy's reaction to being asked to wear an embroidered coat, and returned her attention to the conversation, where the other ladies were taking far more delight in the prospect of eating translucent ham than anyone ever should.

* * *

Elizabeth spent the day following in leaving additional cards and returning calls, and while doing the latter, began to get the sense that news of the Vauxhall expedition had already spread through at least some portion of the ton, for two ladies indicated they were anticipating it immensely and thought it a brilliant notion.

She was glad to turn her mind to more practical matters the day following, for it was to be a day of business – at least such business as a lady is allowed to accomplish. First was an appointment with Dr. Whittling, who was pleased to see her return to health for himself, after having read her joyful letter from the Lakes. That letter had already engaged him to come to Pemberley to attend her for the birth; the cost would be great, but the Darcys did not intend to risk another birth to the London air after its impact on Charles's health.

Her second call of the day was to a part of town she had never frequented, although the vast square at Lincoln's Inn Fields seemed pleasant enough, the house she entered plainly the handsomest. She bade Henry go in with her; by all indications Mr. Soane was a respectable architect, but enough time in society had taught her that sometimes respectability was mere appearance, if that. The housekeeper showed her through a handsome entrance-hall into an equally handsome library painted in a bold red with green accents; even for Elizabeth, who had been in a great many of the finest houses in London, there was a certain innovativeness to the design that tempted her to gawp. Within moments of meeting Mr. Soane, she felt her caution was unnecessary; he was of an age with her father and his eyes held a tinge of the widower's sadness in them. She told Henry to wait outside for her.

Mr. Soane had the papers Mr. Bailey had done up strewn across the table before him, and after the housekeeper announced her, he rose and said, "Ah, yes, Mrs. Darcy who has the cleverly concealed closet she wishes to keep cleverly concealed." He bowed and invited her to sit. "I have been turning my mind to it and have two sketches for you to see – one in the classical style, and one in the gothic. Forgive the roughness of the landscape – I know a few who will be able to an admirable job of it."

He handed Elizabeth the classical sketch first. It featured the curving arches and columns of what appeared to be an Italian villa, great portions of it open to the landscape. The part near the door to the closet, however, was comprised of what would be painted stone, and even without his notations Elizabeth could understand that the lines between the stones would be made to align with the doorway, thus concealing it.

"I believe you must see that there is something incongruous about mixing English Lakes and an Italian villa," said Mr. Soane, pulling the sketch from her hands and giving another over to her. "I am sure you will see this is the superior option."

Elizabeth could not like his manner of telling her thus, but as she looked over the sketch she could see he was correct. This design was even more open than the other had been, the mural meant to be the ruins of some old gothic monastery or abbey, the door to the closet concealed within an archway of the ruins. This ruin was meant to be set atop a hill in the Lakes, and beyond could be seen a rough vista of exactly the type Elizabeth had so adored during her time there. She breathed in – this design was incongruous, as well, for she had never seen monastical ruins anywhere in the Lakes. Yet it was thoroughly _English_ , quite beautiful, and it would conceal the closet just as well as the panelling had done, and perhaps better if it was executed well.

"I do – I would not have thought I would prefer gothic, but it all fits together much better."

"It will be easier to furnish to your taste with gothic, given you wish to avoid gilt. There are many pieces done in the gothic style that are made of good old English oak."

"I like the sound of that," said Elizabeth, who liked the idea of English oak for other reasons – Georgiana had made her more conscious of the origins of exotic woods. Elizabeth did not know enough about all of them to be certain which were not produced by slave labour, but English oak was surely a safe choice. "My only concern is whether I would be able to find pieces that do not have too much – frippery."

He chuckled, and seemed to regard her with greater respect. "I have never heard it called that before, but I suppose it is as accurate a description as any. I know of several warehouses that will be happy to work with you to design pieces to your taste. I understand you are known as a lady of fashion." His gaze drifted upwards to Elizabeth's bonnet. She had dressed at quite the peak of fashion that day, not to impress him or Dr. Whittling, but for her next appointment.

Elizabeth blushed. "Yes, I believe I am."

"Now, I understand you have done the curtains already – an interesting approach – but you should add a little cornice above them, like so." He showed Elizabeth another sketch, and when she had nodded, slid yet another piece of paper before her. "You should also have a new fireplace installed."

"Oh, I had not thought of that, but the old one shall not fit this very well."

"'Tis not your job to think of it, 'tis mine," he said. "Here are a few options. I believe these two will be far more _frippery_ than you will have interest in, but this little Tudor-style one would work well."

"Yes, I do prefer that one," stated Elizabeth. She had a moment's pang in thinking that all of these additions were likely to cost a great deal, but Darcy had made it very clear she was to renovate her rooms to suit her, and cost was not to be considered. And after all, he had been the one to recommend Soane.

"Excellent, I shall draw up some final plans for this room and something for the dressing-room to match, then send them around to your house. With any luck, we might have the work done by the time you return to Pemberley."

Elizabeth thanked him and took her leave, her stomach fluttering slightly in nervous anticipation of her next stop. Powell deposited her outside her modiste's on Bond Street, and she took a deep breath before she entered. Playacting of this sort was not something she had ever wished to do, nor something she had thought she should be good at; she did this for a good purpose, though, she reminded herself, and perhaps like her mother she would find some hidden aptitude, when called upon to do it. Henry opened the door for her, and just inside was Georgiana, perusing the gloves.

"Lady Stanton, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting."

"Oh, 'tis nothing," said Georgiana. "Your maids are here already."

As they had their last time together in this shop, the two ladies approached their maids – now with Brigid added as a third – and were shown a selection of fabrics and sketches done by Sarah, this time of a pregnant woman of Elizabeth's height and a tall woman of Georgiana's build. Elizabeth flipped through the sketches, selecting two dresses she liked very well.

"What fabric do you have for them?" she asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she eyed some of the other women within the shop. They had all paused their perusals of fabric, as usual watching Mrs. Darcy's shopping in great curiosity. Now was the time.

"I've two cottons I thought you would like, ma'am," replied Sarah. She, too, was an actress in this play, one who had agreed to her part solemnly.

"And where did the cotton come from?"

"From America, ma'am, for both of them."

"Nothing from America, Kelly. I won't have cotton made by slaves."

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I'll not show any to you again," said Sarah, making such a good show of being flustered that if Elizabeth had not planned this with her in advance, she would have been quite troubled over the impact of her words.

"See that you do not," stated Elizabeth. "What other options do you have? Silk, perhaps? And better from Spitalfields than from France."

Of course, two of the bolts of silk proved to be from Spitalfields, and as Sarah had known her mistress well enough to know Elizabeth would like them very well, the new dresses were promptly ordered. By the keen looks on the faces of the other ladies within the shop, it was plain the rest of these fabrics would not last long, in the shop. Georgiana followed her lead, ordering several dresses with equal insistence on fabrics with no tie to slavery, and then the two ladies and three maids exited the shop.

"Oh, thank you – you did so well," said Georgiana.

"Do you think it truly made a difference?"

"I think it will. Every woman in the shop was positively hanging on your every word."

Elizabeth very nearly commented that if her place as something so frivolous as an arbiter of fashion could make progress in something so weighty as slavery, then perhaps it was truly useful. But Sarah was there, waiting to take her seat on the box, and Elizabeth did not wish to demean her maid's efforts, particularly if fashion was not always so frivolous as she had thought.


	63. Part 2, Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

The first signs that Elizabeth's words about fabric had spread came from Spitalfields, for a bundle of bolts of beautiful silk was delivered to the house on Curzon Street along with a note that proclaimed they were given "with gratitude from the weavers of Spitalfields." This was followed by a call from the Gardiners that indicated it was quite a topic of conversation among their other acquaintances in trade; Mr. Gardiner had added that if he knew the sort of influence his niece had over fabric, he might not have given up trading in it some years ago. Georgiana asked eagerly if the Gardiners had heard of the extent of the impact on the trade of American cotton, but they had not. Georgiana checked the newspapers every day, hoping to see something there, but as the days passed she saw nothing, and had to develop the resolve that it might take some time before she could understand whether there had been a true impact.

She turned her mind therefore to the other work she had intended to do while in town: that of matchmaking. Viscount Huntston had come out to dine with them several times at Stanton Hall, and in the last of these dinners Georgiana had asked him if he intended to go to town for the season. He did, although he was not anticipating any pleasure from endeavouring to make his way in a society very different from the one he had known; in his own neighbourhood he had been accepted readily enough, but he expected navigating the London ton would be quite different. He had been exceedingly pleased to hear the Stantons would be there for part of the season, and might at least help with introductions.

So far as Georgiana thought, there was one introduction more important than all the rest, and that was to Miss Gillingham. She intended to affect this introduction by ensuring both of them were invited to Lady Tonbridge's musical evenings – Miss Gillingham as a performer on the pianoforte, and Viscount Huntston as a listener. Both had been easily done, for Lady Tonbridge had already been acquainted with the girl's stepmother when she was Georgiana's companion, and she was always pleased to welcome new performers, particularly young ladies just out in society. Lady Tonbridge took an immediate liking to Viscount Huntston as well, inviting him so heartily that Georgiana wondered whether she had her own young lady in mind for him or if her mind had gone in the same direction as Georgiana's.

The Stantons went to that Monday's musical club with Lady Stanton anticipating the introduction as one of the pleasures to be had on the evening. Not the greatest pleasure, however; that would come from the cello case Matthew carried, for he had agreed to do a duet with her. It would be their first time performing together for this audience, and in some ways Georgiana felt as though they were coming full circle, back to the place that had formed such an important part of their courtship, now finally to play together, to show harmony together as husband and wife.

This sense was heightened still more when she was startled to see Lady Julia Barton was one of those assembled within the room. Georgiana supposed it was only fair that since the Duke of Bolton had re-entered their lives during their last time in town, that she should now be faced with the young woman who had competed with her for Matthew's affections and nearly broken Georgiana's heart, when rumours had spread that they were engaged. What surprised her still more was that the young lady still held the surname of Barton – and she was nearing the age where she could no longer be called _young_. Lady Tonbridge murmured the explanation to Georgiana – Lady Julia had been engaged to be married two years ago, but her betrothed – another naval captain – had died of fever, and as it had been a love match the lady had not been eager to re-enter the marriage mart.

Georgiana was still more surprised when Lord Stretford arrived with what he had dubbed his widowers club in tow – both Andrew Fitzwilliam and the duke. It was but the work of mere moments to decide that not only one but _two_ matches might be initiated that evening, and Georgiana was pleased to see Lady Tonbridge introduce the duke to Lady Julia. It seemed a strangely perfect destiny, that these two who had caused jealousy on either side of Georgiana and Matthew's courtship would now finally meet when they had both suffered loss.

Lady Tonbridge called on everyone to take their seats, and it was not at all difficult to manoeuvre Miss Gillingham to sit beside Lord Huntston – Lady Epworth had certainly caught what Georgiana was about and clearly approved of her former charge's plans for her stepdaughter. Lady Julia was called upon to go first, and her skill on the harp had improved still more since Georgiana had last seen her play, almost five years ago. Miss Gillingham was encouraged to play the pianoforte next, and went up with her pretty countenance marked with a sort of sweet nervousness that surely must be appealing to any young man. She played well, and Georgiana was very well pleased by how Lord Huntston complimented her as he handed her back into her seat. It was, she thought, a very promising beginning.

Lady Tonbridge asked Georgiana and Matthew to perform and announced they should be the last before they took a break for refreshments. With so many performers, they had agreed upon just the first movement of Hélène Liebmann's Grande Sonate, and Georgiana was glad of this. It was a bright, sparkling little piece, technically demanding on the pianoforte part. Something more emotional – their Beethoven pieces came to mind – would have been a struggle to play when this very place and some of the people assembled here were such a reminder of the past. They played well and were roundly applauded when they finished, but as Matthew took her hand to help her up from the bench, he squeezed it lightly and gazed into her eyes, his thoughts clearly similar to hers. In that moment Georgiana could hear nothing, could feel nothing but the love they shared – a love made stronger by what they had overcome.

She was so distracted by her own love and nostalgia as to forget about her matchmaking endeavours when the party began to stand and form groups about the refreshments, but found her efforts were not needed. Lord Huntston had led both Miss Gillingham and Lady Epworth up to the table, and they were now mingling with a group that included the Duke of Bolton and Lady Julia. Apparently noticing whom Georgiana's eyes were upon, Lady Tonbridge came over to stand by her shoulder and murmur, "Yours has been my favourite match formed out of this club, for it promises to provide us with more lovely duets like that one, but I daresay it is not the last match we shall see."

"No, I hope it is not," murmured Georgiana in reply.

* * *

The Smiths and Averys called at Curzon Street the next day, and given their arrival in town had been keenly anticipated, Miller was directed to show them into the drawing-room if they attempted to merely leave cards. This was indeed what they did, but they were readily enough coaxed into staying; The Smiths, after all, were family, and the Averys could now be considered such as well, given Herbert Ramsey's marriage to Maria Lucas. They all settled into easy conversation in the drawing-room, although Darcy spoke little, his countenance showing a tinge of tension that was only visible to his wife.

Fitzwilliam Darcy did not make friends easily, but Sir Robert Avery had been the exception. Their positions as landowners, their shared values in caring for their tenants and the poor within their parishes, had been enough for the two of them to overcome their quiet temperaments. Sir Robert was no more than ten years Darcy's senior, but he had spent those years in Parliament – that time had earned him his knighthood – ultimately deciding he could not make the progress he wanted there and was better needed to fight battles within his own neighbourhood. His days of fighting were over, with the Smiths having taken over Rosings, but like Darcy, he was now a family man and perfectly content with the few weeks the Averys would spend in town.

Thus Elizabeth felt badly that what her husband intended to do should mar his time with both Sir Robert and Thomas Smith – once a well-respected tenant of Darcy's, and now a well-liked cousin by marriage – but Darcy had insisted he should be the one to do it. He had known Anne and Lady Catherine for far longer and had felt strongly that it should be his responsibility to tell Anne of what her mother had done. As Elizabeth had felt more strongly that Anne should be told than who specifically should tell her, she had acquiesced, and when finally Darcy asked if he might speak to Anne – alone – in his study, Elizabeth looked to him with sympathy and concern.

Anne clearly felt the strangeness of the request, as did everyone else in the room. Matthew and Georgiana were out, and while it might have been ideal for Darcy to single Anne out without the Averys and the Bingleys knowing of it, such a thing would be difficult in the crowded houses of town, and those remaining in the drawing-room could be trusted to keep their curiosity to themselves. It was Thomas Smith who appeared the most curious and concerned, understandably, but the Darcys had agreed it should be up to Anne as to whether she would tell her husband. When Darcy silently returned to the drawing-room a quarter-hour later and asked Thomas to go to his wife in the study, it was clear what her decision had been.

* * *

It had been on Anne's mind, to perhaps attempt some sort of reconciliation with her mother while she was in town. Nothing substantial, nothing that discomfited her or threatened the independent life the Smiths had made for themselves – nothing even that made Lady Catherine feel welcome in returning to Rosings – but perhaps something simple, perhaps just a dinner. Given the long history of dislike between Lady Catherine, Sir Robert, and Sir Robert's father before him, that dinner could not take place in the Averys's townhouse, where the Smiths were staying, and so Anne had thought she might ask Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth if they would be willing to host such an event.

There would be no dinner now, of that she was certain, curled up as she was on one of the chairs in Fitzwilliam's study, mopping at her eyes with his handkerchief, for she had already soaked through her own. _Murderess_. The word was somehow both awkward and brutal, and it was the one word Anne's mind kept coming back to. _Murderess_. She had lived with this woman for more than thirty years, and although she had understood much of her mother's character, still she had not thought her capable of such a thing. Yet she had believed it entirely when Fitzwilliam had told her of Lady Anne's journals, of what they had read within. In that particular circumstance, in the manner in which she had gone about it, Anne had immediately believed it entirely within her mother's character to do such a thing: _murderess_.

Thomas entered, closing the door behind him with a click so soft Anne could hardly hear it. "Anne? Anne – whatever is the matter?" He rushed over to kneel before the chair and lay his hand on hers.

"I have something very awful I need to tell you, and I am sorry I did not know it before we married. You deserved to know beforehand." She told him everything, or at least everything she could recall of what Fitzwilliam had said, and when she had finished and devolved back into sobs, he said,

"Anne, do not blame yourself for something you did not know about and had nothing to do with. Nothing has changed about who she is or who you are, which is a woman very different from your mother. The only difference is now we know."

"Perhaps it is for the best that it does not seem we shall have a child. Her blood would run through its veins," Anne said bitterly.

Thomas was silent, but he squeezed her hand still tighter. They had passed the point where hopeful words could be a comfort, when it came to children.

"Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth, Georgiana, and Matthew all know of it," said Anne. "Lord and Lady Brandon have known since it happened, but never said anything. How could they look at her all this time and know they had allowed her to walk free after what she did?"

"I haven't lived among the quality for most of my life, Anne, but I know it just as well as you."

"The fear of scandal."

"Yes, and I think in this particular case, the guilt that perhaps what she did was truly best for the family and its dependents. I have been a tenant for most of my life, and felt myself blessed that my tenancy was with the Darcys. I understand more than most what it could have been, though – it happened just this year, when old Sinclair died. I have friends who had their rents raised, their concerns unheard, because one bad generation inherited. Do you think any of them mourned his death?"

"Laurence Sinclair's death was an accident, though. You said he had been caught in his own man-trap."

"Overnight, with the search for him very slow to be initiated. Do you think they looked for him with any degree of zeal? Do you think it did not cross anyone's mind in that house, that something might be wrong with his absence? Do you think it entirely certain that he was not seen while he still lived, but was deliberately overlooked?"

"What are you saying, Thomas? You cannot be condoning what my mother did."

"No, but I am saying that even though it may discomfit us to think of it, there is a space between good and evil. The world isn't divided into wholly right and wholly wrong. And I am saying that it is the little people – the tenants and the servants – who often suffer without anyone noticing their suffering. Your grandfather's death, coming at the time that it did, very likely saved lives. It's just they are not the lives people are accustomed to valuing."

Anne nodded. She had hardly thought of those lives before she had met Thomas. In truth, she had hardly thought of anything, trapped in the fog of her extended illness, but she might have continued in her ignorance if it had not been for those who had become the leaders in her neighbourhood, particularly her husband.

"I cannot ever forget what she did," Anne stated.

"And you should not. I hope in time, though, you will forgive those in your family who have kept the secret, then and now."

Anne nodded. "I must. They are some of my dearest relations."

* * *

While such difficult conversations were occurring at Curzon Street, Georgiana was far more comfortably ensconced in her aunt's dressing-room, looking through the contents of the trunks her aunt's footmen had placed within. When Countess Esterházy had first raised the scheme for wearing clothing of the old fashion to Vauxhall, Georgiana had felt enthusiasm for the idea mingled with concern over being able to execute it when it came to her tall figure. She could not wear her own mother's old dresses, that much was certain, and there would not be time to have a dress made. Her aunt Ellen had expressed confidence in being able to make over one of her old dresses, though, and invited her to come for the afternoon and look through them. Georgiana was still dubious about the dress, but the prospect of an afternoon spent with Lady Ellen gave her heart great cheer, and she had agreed readily.

"How about this one?" Lady Ellen asked, holding up a gown embroidered with roses, reds and pinks for the flowers and green for the stems and leaves, and all of it interspersed with silver threads. "It has a polonaise back – your mother loved them, and they always looked so well on her. She was such a tiny, petite little creature – I could never understand how she bore such tall children as you and Fitzwilliam."

"And George, and the others who did not survive," said Georgiana.

"I did not know you had been told about them."

"I was not told. We – Elizabeth found her old journals, in her closet. Elizabeth read them, to ensure there was nothing within I should not read, and then she gave them over to me."

"There was _nothing_ within, that you should not read?" Lady Ellen asked, hesitantly.

"She wrote about what Aunt Catherine did. Elizabeth warned me of it, but I did read it. I – I understand why the secret was kept. We are all agreed it should stay that way, save informing Anne."

"Then you understand why I can say very firmly that the wrong sister of that family died," said Lady Ellen. Georgiana's aunt was not a woman formed for bitterness, and to see it on her countenance was startling.

"My mother was very grateful for you – for your friendship. You were the sister she deserved, I think," said Georgiana, her eyes filling with tears. "I understand you perfectly, when you say such a thing."

"Lady Anne was my dearest friend," said Lady Ellen, touching her niece's shoulder. "She would have been so proud of you, of that I am sure."

"I hope so."

"I _know_ so. I had intended to give you this when you departed today, but now seems the better time. I had entirely forgotten about the painting until your sister asked me to make a copy of it, and I thought I might as well make two. Your sister mentioned the finding of the closet, but not the journals – I was honoured to know Anne kept my painting in so intimate a space."

Lady Ellen went over to her dressing-table and picked up what appeared to be a frame, wrapped in canvas. Georgiana drew the canvas away to find a perfect copy of the painting of the Darcy children approaching the lake.

"Oh, it is beautiful – thank you. I shall treasure this very much."

"Your mother could seem cold, on early acquaintance. To those of us who knew her best, though, it was clear that her heart was tender when it came to her family. That is how I know she would have been proud of you – if you had accomplished half, a fourth, even an eighth of what you have done in your life, Georgiana, I am still sure she would have been proud of you, for you were her darling little miracle girl."

It was not easy, to return to such light-hearted acts as dress-fitting after speaking of such things, but Lady Ellen was well aware of this. She ordered tea, and they sat at a little Pembroke table in her dressing-room, drinking it and reminiscing further about Georgiana's mother. Georgiana did not share her mother's earliest impressions of Lady Ellen – those, she thought, Lady Anne would not have wanted to be known by her sister-in-law – but they did speak a little of that season of courtship, of the house party in Cornwall.

"It must be difficult for you, to be unable to ever return to the house you grew up in," said Georgiana.

"It is, but I have my memories, and I made a great many paintings before I married your uncle, things I could take with me, to remember."

"Have you even been back to Cornwall?" asked Georgiana.

"No – 'tis rather a long road to travel when there is no longer a home at the end of it."

"If you would like to sail there someday, Matthew and I could take you – and Lord Brandon of course – if you would wish it. I do not know that it will be any faster, but we've done many renovations on the cabins in the yacht, and I think at least it should be more comfortable."

"I would like that very much, Georgiana. The coast is beautiful – have you been?"

"No, I have not."

"Everywhere else in the whole world, and not Cornwall. I would like very much to show it to you."

"Let us plan on it," stated Georgiana.

They finished their tea and Georgiana finally tried on the dress. It was short on her, but as her aunt had promised, the polonaise back made it seem less noticeable.

"If your maid is clever with a needle, she should be able to cut off part of the back of the petticoat – the part that is not visible beneath the overdress – and use it to add some extra length."

"There should be no difficulty with that," said Georgiana, for at present she had not one but two maids, plus a personal footman, all of whom were all clever with a needle.

"It should be quite an evening – although perhaps not what your sister originally envisioned. Several of my acquaintances have mentioned it to me. But I suppose it will be better if Vauxhall is a little fuller than it usually is these days – more like how it used to be."


	64. Part 2, Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

They could have taken carriages across the new bridge, but they chose to go in the old style. When they arrived, the waterman commenting that it seemed right busy tonight as he helped them up out of the wherry, they found that Vauxhall was _much_ fuller than usual. Even just their own party had grown so that it included the Averys, Smiths, Bingleys, all of the Fitzwilliams, the Epworths and Miss Gillingham, Viscountess Tonbridge, Viscount Huntston, the Marquess of Stretford, The Duke of Bolton, and the Esterházys. It had taken several wherries to transport them all across the river, and they stood gathering before the entrance.

Elizabeth stood with her hand tucked beneath her husband's arm, the embroidered silk beneath her gloves a strange departure from the wool or kerseymere that was usually to be felt there. Darcy had agreed, begrudgingly, to wear an old coat, waistcoat, and breeches of his father's, and had even donned a matching tricorne hat, to his wife's great amusement. He had held fast to the rules he had set when she first approached him on the subject, though: "Absolutely no wig, and no powder." In truth she much preferred his usual understated style, but this was novel and she expected to get much teasing out of it, and so it would do very well for the night.

Elizabeth herself had not intended to wear powder, either, but Sarah had arranged for an elderly man who could still do the old styles to come in and shape her hair, and once the great voluminous pouf was set in place and topped with a broad-brimmed hat onto which Sarah had decadently pinned fresh white roses, it seemed that she might as well complete the look and let them dust powder into the construction. Sarah had tucked more rosebuds into the hair itself, and the effect was striking. Darcy's coat was blue beneath all of the embroidery, and so they had used that for the accent colour, blue ribbons hanging down from the hat and tied beneath Elizabeth's chin, another blue ribbon tied about her waist just above where her belly swelled, and sapphires around her neck and in her ears. Elizabeth had been tempted to wear her diamonds – in a way she felt naked without either them or her seal pendant – but this seemed a night to wear some of the family jewels, stones Lady Anne herself had worn, although in a far more ostentatious setting. Elizabeth was wearing a blue cloak of Lady Anne's, as well, although she noticed many women had eschewed warmth in favour of fully embracing and displaying the old dresses of their attics.

Lady Ellen was not among them, but she wore a short cape, one that showed off the stunning old striped robe à l'anglaise that Lady Anne had written about in her journal. It was still in perfect condition, and unlike many of the ladies who were clearly in the clothes of their parents, Lady Ellen looked as though she _belonged_ in it, much as she must have done when Lady Anne had first seen her in it. The main thing that had changed was her hair, which no longer needed so much powder to appear fully grey.

"I am still trying to decide whether your aunt or you is the belle of this ball," said Countess Esterházy, appearing beside Elizabeth as best she could while wearing substantial panniers. "She wears those dresses best, I think, but you look like an old painting and no-one else thought to wear the old French queen's chemise dress. You will stand out, as you always do."

Even with the people milling at the entrance, Elizabeth hardly thought there could be so many people as to need to stand out, but she was wrong. From the moment they all entered, her jaw fell. There were decidedly hundreds of people, almost dressed in the old style, strolling about the entrance and deeper into the gardens. Interspersed among them were people dressed in fashions but a few years out of date and looking very bewildered, as though a giant band of ghosts had descended upon them.

"Oh! There's Mrs. Darcy!" This exclamation was followed by a young lady in a dress that was three feet wide if it was an inch scampering up to Elizabeth, her hoops and hair both wobbling dangerously. "I should have known _you_ would come up with something different than all the rest of us – how beautiful you look! But I shall enjoy myself anyway, even though you are best-dressed as usual. What fun! What a brilliant idea this was of yours."

The lady was covered in so much paint and powder that it took some moments of her speaking before Elizabeth recognized her voice as that of Lady Blakeley, an acquaintance of hers. One she was fond of, although Elizabeth had never thought to invite her as part of their burgeoning party. It did not seem she had needed to invite Lady Blakeley, though. The lady skipped off, and Countess Esterházy murmured,

"I think you are going to be the belle, as usual. Maybe we will even see these dresses become popular again. Made with Spitalfields silk, of course. We all know how you feel about American cotton."

"Countess Esterházy, how – how many people did you mention this outing to?" Elizabeth asked her.

"Just a few. But I suppose maybe those few told a few, and those few told a few, and now here we are with the entire ton returned to the Vauxhall Gardens. It _was_ a good idea, and such fun – everyone else clearly thought so."

Lord and Lady Brandon, Lord Stretford, and Lady Tonbridge, the only persons of their party having a goodly degree of experience with the place, were in agreement that they ought to go and procure boxes for supper, for there was a great likelihood that both boxes and supper would all be gone soon – the proprietors could never have anticipated such a crowd descending on the place.

As they were walking thither, Elizabeth was surprised to hear Georgiana call out to Lady Julia Barton and her companion that they should come and join their group. Lady Julia had competed with Georgiana for Matthew's hand, and Elizabeth had not thought Georgiana would want to have anything to do with her, even now. The invitation was seconded by Lady Tonbridge, though, and thus their party grew still further before they began to divide themselves into smaller groups for the boxes.

The Darcys claimed a place in Lord and Lady Brandon's box, and Elizabeth was pleased to see Edward and Marguerite form the rest of their party, with the Bingleys, Smiths, and Averys immediately beside them.

"Is this not beautiful?" asked Marguerite. "All these women and men in the clothes of their parents, all the colour and splendour?"

"It is," said Elizabeth. She had a sense that none of it would have been so beautiful in daytime, that the garden's paintings and buildings were faded from age just as much as the fabrics, but now, in the light of the lamps and the stars, it was all beautiful.

* * *

Georgiana had lost track of her matches as they were all dividing themselves into boxes, but she was pleased to see the Epworths and their daughter, Lord Huntston, Lady Julia, and the Duke of Bolton all squeeze themselves into the box beside the one Lord Stretford had taken for the Stantons, Andrew, and Lady Tonbridge, and that the party seemed to be an animated one. Both boxes ordered punch, wine, tarts, and the infamous thin ham, and although none of it was particularly good, they all enjoyed themselves anyway. Even Andrew seemed pleased on this evening, perhaps because he was often talking politics with Lord Stretford, until Lady Tonbridge would tease them into stopping and encourage more fitting pastimes for the evening like commenting upon how very well some of the ladies had recreated the old hairstyles. In this even Matthew had a favourite, for one woman had perched a little model of a ship of the line atop a full foot of hair.

The elders of their group had been right that the boxes would fill up; they had been required to take a set quite far from the Darcys, Fitzwilliams, and others of their party, and when they had all finished and could see that group rising to leave, they all rose too. Georgiana and Matthew wished listen to the music, but it seemed even such an aficionado of music as Lady Tonbridge was rather more in favour of walking the grounds, very likely because Lord Stretford intended to walk there and this seemed very much a night to pair off with one's lover. Thus everyone else departed, to see the pavilions and various sights, or for the privacy of the walks. As they were all leaving, Georgiana saw something that so surprised her, she was tempted for a moment to run after them and tell them they had got it wrong: Lady Barton was taking up Lord Huntston's arm, and Miss Gillingham was doing the same to the duke.

Matthew dipped his head below the brim of her hat and murmured, "I think your matchmaking did not come out quite as you wanted it to, dearest. But they do seem fond of each other."

"They do, don't they?"

"You did still bring them all together. I think you might take some credit, even if they did not arrange themselves as you had wished."

"Perhaps I shall." Georgiana clasped his arm. "Come, I hear the organ – let us go and listen."

They did so, finding the organist and other musicians competent, but the selections uninspired. It was clear to them the days of Handel were long in the past.

"Perhaps the others were wise, to not put much stock in the music," said Matthew.

"It is still music."

"Yes, but I do not think it will compare to what we have opportunity to hear. What say you, Georgiana, shall we prepare to go to the continent? All the concerts of Vienna await us."

"Oh, that sounds wonderful." Georgiana bit her lip. "I did promise my aunt we would take a family trip to Cornwall, though."

"Cornwall is not far – we may fit them both in this year."

She tightened her grip on his arm. "Then yes, Matthew – let us go to Vienna, and Venice, and Milan, and Florence, and Bavaria – all the places we lacked the time for, before."

"Indeed, dearest. Now we have all the time in the world."

Out of the corner of her eye, Georgiana saw Andrew Fitzwilliam, standing awkward and alone amongst those listening to the music. Her heart filled with sympathy for him – even all the other members of the widower's club had paired off on this evening – and she released Matthew's hand, motioning to Andrew to join them.

"Come and stand with us," she said as he approached, looking relieved. "The music is not particularly good tonight, but we intend to listen anyway."

* * *

Perhaps Vauxhall was more like it had been during the previous generation of Darcys's courtship, to be so filled with people. Being packed into supper boxes and eating thin ham with some hundreds of other people, though, had not been the sort of evening of quiet reminiscences Elizabeth had been hoping to enjoy with her husband.

As their party began breaking up into couples and smaller groups to explore the grounds, she found this quietude could be had within the walks, however. The lanterns were fewer here, and they passed more than one couple who had stepped deeper into the shadows for an amorous embrace. Their own party had separated, each couple walking at their own pace and the pace of the Darcys being abnormally slow for the two of them. It was a fine thing, to stroll along hand-in-hand on a crisp evening, with the light and the shadows dancing all about them. It was a fine thing as well, when they found themselves alone on a portion of the path and Darcy pulled her into the shadows. Elizabeth gazed at him, her eyes dancing.

"It seems I am wearing a remarkable dress, so you had better behave yourself."

"Just a kiss, Mrs. Darcy," he murmured. "Would you go your whole life without ever having kissed a gentleman in the shadows at Vauxhall?"

She laughed and raised a single finger, smirking as she used it to tip his tricorne back. "I suppose it is an experience one should have. I've never been kissed by a man in such a beautiful coat, either."

"I knew you were going to teaze me, about the coat. Allow me to show you how thoroughly I wish to silence you, on the subject."

It was not a short kiss, nor a delicate one. It was long and fervent, made more delicious by its clandestine nature. In time, they heard voices approaching and separated, although Darcy left kept his arm about her waist, hidden from view by her cloak, and they remained thus even as they emerged from the walk to the sound and sight of fireworks.

They walked over to where the crowd was viewing them and Darcy, espying Lord and Lady Brandon, made to lead his wife over to them, but something in their posture made Elizabeth pause.

"Let us go and find some of the others and leave them to their memories – the Darcys I believe they would have wanted to stand beside are gone," she murmured. "Look, there are Jane and Charles."

So they went to stand beside the Bingleys, and were greeted enthusiastically. Somehow this felt very right, to Elizabeth. Just as the courtship of Darcy's parents and that of Lord and Lady Brandon had been intertwined, so too had the courtships of their generation of the Darcys and that of the Bingleys. Intertwined in a very different way, of course, but intertwined nonetheless. As they all stood there, the light flickering on their faces, Elizabeth felt a fullness in her heart towards these three people who were so precious to her. Then she felt her child move and was reminded there was another with them, one who would be just as precious.


	65. Part 2, Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

Elizabeth continued to hear what a success the Vauxhall outing had been for days after the event. There was a letter from Catherine saying mama had read every single word that had been printed about it thrice over, and it had enlivened Mrs. Bennet like nothing else had done for months. Thankfully Elizabeth read this before the letter from her mother, which told her everything that could be told about that night, in far greater detail than Elizabeth had been able to observe herself or cared for. She read it with patience, and then wrote an immediate response to her mother with her own observations, even going so far as to promise to bring the chemise dress with her to Longbourn.

She suspected her role in accidentally organising the largest rout of the year was also behind Lady Harrison's call. Caroline had been there, it seemed, and lamented that she had not seen Elizabeth to greet her. As she spoke of the evening it became clear that her lament was truly that she had not been considered close enough family to be included in the Darcys's party, and that she now sought to ingratiate herself in the hopes of being included in a future event. Elizabeth listened with more amusement than annoyance, and her amusement was heightened when Caroline's eyes widened tremendously as Miller came in and announced,

"His Grace, the Duke of Devonshire." Miller's tone was peculiar – Caroline might not notice, but Elizabeth did. He had announced dukes before – on two rainy mornings, the Duke of Bolton had brought his daughter to spend some hours in the nursery with Caroline and Emma – but there were dukes, and then there was the Duke of Devonshire, a man of a whole other level of import when one's master was from Derbyshire. Elizabeth and Caroline both rose and curtsied, but the duke addressed only Mrs. Darcy as he entered the drawing-room.

"I shall not keep you long, Mrs. Darcy," he said. "I came to see Derbyshire's newest magistrate and discuss a few matters of the county with him, but I did wish to greet you."

"You are very good to do so. Is the magistrancy final, then?"

"Eh?"

"My husband is formally a magistrate?" Elizabeth said, far more loudly.

"Ah, yes, and I am very glad to have him in that role. I did not think my mistake would be rectified so quickly."

Elizabeth nodded, then continued on in the same loud voice, "Thank you for the bananas. For some time they were the only solid food my son would eat."

"I thought they might be good food for a baby, being soft and all." He smiled. "I see you have company, so I will leave you."

Elizabeth nodded and shouted that Miller would show him to Mr. Darcy's study, although she would have much preferred continuing to shout conversation with the duke rather than have a tete-a-tete with Caroline. Not five minutes later, however, Miller came in and announced,

"Her Serene Highness, The Hereditary Princess Esterházy of Galántha."

It was then that Elizabeth realised Miller was about something. Elizabeth had a suspicion that he was seeking to impress Caroline with his mistress's company, for Countess Esterházy usually asked to be announced as a mere countess, using her husband's title. Elizabeth's friend swept in and greeted her without so much as acknowledging Caroline's existence, and Elizabeth began to wonder if this had instead been a signal to Countess Esterházy that she might not wish for an introduction to the other woman in the drawing-room.

Caroline sat on the edge of the sofa looking like a keen terrier, as though she expected Countess Esterházy to request an introduction at any moment, but the request never came. There followed what was possibly the most awkward five minutes of Elizabeth's life. She glanced at Caroline and then the clock several times – a quarter hour had easily passed since Caroline had arrived – but Caroline never took the hint. She seemed determined to wear Countess Esterházy down by waiting there until the lady acquiesced to an introduction, but Caroline did not know Countess Esterházy well enough to understand the request would _never_ come. Elizabeth's friend was stubborn and a stickler for propriety; she would have sat for hours upon end if necessary, to outwait Caroline.

Countess Esterházy determined it unnecessary, however. Turning to Elizabeth, she said, "Mrs. Darcy, perhaps we might go take a turn in the park. It is such an advantage, that you live so near." Then she directed a cool glare towards Caroline, who finally seemed to comprehend she was nearer a cut than an introduction and said she ought to take her leave.

They did go for a little walk in the park. Elizabeth did not look back, but she felt almost certain Caroline was staring longingly after them, and for the first time she felt a little sympathy towards the woman. She felt as well the strangeness of her own position – she had felt it at times over the years – that somehow she had come to have such acquaintances, such influence as she never could have expected.

"I do not know who that woman was, but I know her type well enough," Countess Esterházy was saying. "Grasping, reaching, trying to climb in society. I wonder that you put up with her acquaintance."

"She is family," Elizabeth said, stopping herself before the word _unfortunately_ slipped out. "Mrs. Bingley's sister-in-law."

"Ah. Well then you must maintain peace within the family, I suppose. It is rare that marriage does not bring some sort of undesirable connection."

They had a pleasant walk and pleasant conversation, and as they were returning to the house they passed Darcy and George, mounted on Gannett and Buttercup respectively. Citing the old pony's stamina, Darcy had been limiting him to two riders per day – one of the boys in the morning and then one of the girls later in the afternoon. But Elizabeth thought this rule had also given him an opportunity to give his sons – and George Nichols – the individual attention they had both agreed was so important. It seemed particularly so for George Darcy, she thought, for the boy looked exceedingly happy to be going out with his father; given how much he took after that man, Elizabeth thought such attentions would be even more important for him than for the other boys.

Father and son both nodded to the ladies, and after they had walked on Countess Esterházy observed, "Such an adorable little boy, and very like his father."

"Yes, very," said Elizabeth, tenderly.

Countess Esterházy got into her carriage and Elizabeth returned to the house, where she learned she was not through with undesirable company when Miller came in and asked if she was at home for Lady Catherine de Bourgh. He had been instructed that she was at home for all callers, but the last time that lady had been within the house the butler had been directed to prevent her from further interaction with his master and mistress – bodily if necessary. Elizabeth sighed and said that she was, but he should stand ready to show the lady out if his mistress asked for him to do so. She had at times thought they should endeavour to bring Lady Catherine back into the family – thoughts that had ended after reading Lady Anne's journals. So she agreed to take the call more out of curiosity than anything else, wondering whether her aunt-in-law had come to berate her or attempt to return to the family fold – an attempt Elizabeth did not think any of them would be willing to stomach.

Lady Catherine stumped in, leaning heavily on her cane. She looked old and thin and tired, as though force of personality had always accounted for her stoutness and now it had diminished significantly. Even before she sat down it seemed more likely that she wished to return to the family fold, and Elizabeth had her confirmation when she said,

"Good morning, Mrs. Darcy. You are looking well. I understand you organised quite an outing to Vauxhall the other day. I have not been there in years, but the thought of it brings back such fond memories."

"Good morning, Lady Catherine. I would not say I _organised_ it beyond my own party, but word spread and it seems there were many who thought it would be a lark, to visit the old place."

"A lark, yes, I see. Did Anne go? I have heard she is in town. How is she? Is she well?"

"She did go. She has been well, I think." For the second time that day, Elizabeth felt sympathy towards one she would never have expected to feel it towards, but she reminded herself that while Lady Harrison was many things, a murderess was not one of them. The thought hardened Elizabeth's heart.

"Is she staying with you?"

"No – she is staying with other friends."

Something like Lady Catherine's old glare was directed towards Elizabeth, but Elizabeth's gaze in return was firm. She would not give the lady Anne's location without Anne's consent to do so. It was clear Lady Catherine understood this, for her face showed an evident attempt to soften her features, then she said,

"I see you are in the family way again. This will be your fourth, will it not?"

"Yes, our fourth."

"James, George, and – and Charles, am I correct?"

"Yes, Charles."

"How are they, your little children?"

"They are all well."

"Is there – is there any chance Anne is in the family way?"

Elizabeth felt a softer emotion returning to her – this time nearer pity than sympathy. Was it enough of a punishment for Lady Catherine to be ostracised from her own family, to be grasping for information about any potential grandchildren? Perhaps not, given what she had done, but it _was_ a punishment, and one that lady's countenance showed had been a difficult one.

"I do not believe so. Would you like some tea, or coffee, or chocolate?" It was on Elizabeth's mind to add brandy to this list, but she managed to hold her tongue.

"No. I shall be going. It was good to see you, Mrs. Darcy."

"And you, Lady Catherine."

Darcy came in with George a half-hour later. The boy confirmed that he had had a very nice ride, and then his mother informed his father of Lady Catherine's call.

"You did not need to receive her," Darcy said. "She has never been a friend to you."

"I know, but I was curious. Probably too curious for my own good, but in truth it was not so bad. She suffers from the estrangement, I am sure. It is perhaps not a sufficient punishment for what she has done, but it is a sort of punishment."

"Mama, what's es-t-range-ment mean?" asked George.

"It means people who were once close – like family or friends – are not close anymore. When that happens we say they are estranged from us."

"Es-t-rang-ed isn't the same as going to Heaven, is it?"

"No, George. When we are estranged from someone it means both of us are alive, we just choose not to see each other."

Worry clouded his face. "Mama, papa, I don't ever want to be es-t-rang-ed from anyone. It's bad enough people have to go to Heaven."

"Oh my darling boy, I could never imagine wanting to be estranged from such a good-hearted boy as you." Elizabeth held out her arms to him and he ran into her embrace readily. Darcy watched them tenderly, but also with a hint of sadness in his eyes, and Elizabeth thought she knew the cause. His mother might have felt every bit of the tenderness Elizabeth held in her heart at that moment, but she would not have embraced her son in the drawing-room.

* * *

While Elizabeth was dealing with her strange mix of callers, Georgiana was more agreeably engaged in Cavendish Square, watching as three little girls and one big dog capered about happily together. She was startled, though, when there came to be two additions to their party: two additions quite well known to her.

"Lady Epworth! Miss Gillingham! How good it is to see you," she exclaimed.

The duke looked a bit abashed, and Georgiana realised this must have been arranged in advance. The Dowager Duchess of Bolton remained at his estate in the north, and therefore he had no lady of the house to receive callers, but they might encounter him by _chance_ in the square. Then Georgiana saw Miss Gillingham greeting the children and realised the importance of the young lady's presence here. The duke could call upon her, and they might meet out at society events, but only here could she be seen not only as a potential bride, but also as a potential stepmother. That role was important to Lord Bolton, Georgiana knew, and perhaps she had not given him as much credit for it as she should have, when he had proposed to _her_. As for Miss Gillingham, Georgiana did not doubt she would do well in this evaluation; the most important thing in a mother was a good heart, and Miss Gillingham certainly had that. She was kneeling down, now, to speak with the little girls and to pat Dog, which seemed to do much to endear her to them.

When finally she rose, there were grass marks on her dress, but it was evident the duke approved. He greeted her with a broader smile than Georgiana had seen on him since they had become reacquainted, and proposed to show the young lady about the square. Lady Epworth gave her consent and the two of them walked off, Miss Gillingham's hand on his arm.

"I cannot say I ever thought I would be chaperoning another young woman being courted by that man," stated Lady Epworth.

"It is strange, isn't it?" asked Georgiana. "I had hoped for an attachment to Lord Huntston – I would never have thought of coupling these two."

"There are those in my family who would be tremendously pleased to see her become a duchess, but I do worry that he might break her heart."

"He seems very attentive to her," noted Jane Bingley, her tone hopeful.

Across the square, Miss Gillingham said something that made the duke laugh.

"Mrs. Bingley is right," said Georgiana. "He looks at her in a way he never did at me, and he is the sort of man who will be steadfast to the woman he commits to marrying. I believe that is why he could not make the commitment to make me an offer – back then. I think it will turn out well, and it would indeed be a fine thing for her to become a duchess."

It would be more than that, Georgiana thought. She was glad the duke had understood that the woman he should seek was not the sort of woman who would be swayed by becoming a duchess, and while Miss Gillingham could not but be conscious of the possibility, it seemed the duke's personality was the more important draw for her, a personality she had done much to re-enliven. Given that, her family could have no qualms about rejoicing in the match. There were few dukes on the marriage mart, and for Miss Gillingham to become a duchess in her first season would be the match of the year. Georgiana thought with pride that it would reflect particularly well on her new stepmother – after all, it was through Lady Epworth's connections that Miss Gillingham had met the duke.

Caroline's cry of "Uncle William!" alerted Georgiana that there was another addition to their party. Lord Stretford often came out to greet them when the children were playing in the square, and today was no exception. He spoke a few words to Caroline and tousled her hair, then did the same to Dog and walked on to join the adults, greeting them all and coming to stand beside Georgiana.

"Lady Stanton, perhaps we might follow the example of our friends and take a turn about the square?" he asked.

"Certainly," she replied.

"Is Matthew at the Admiralty?"

"Nay, he is seeing a publisher, about David's sermons."

"Ah, well then I hope he may have success and if he does not, that he will enlist my help. They would be a vast improvement over the drivel that is read out in most parish churches in this country, and moreover their success would infuriate my brother, which will in turn give me a goodly degree of satisfaction."

They walked on in silence for some time, and then he said, "I understand you have some degree of romantic history with Bolton – I hope the prospect of a closer connection does not discomfit you."

"Not at all. I was in love with another when he courted me, and still was – when he proposed."

He chuckled. "Bolton said the same. I believe my widower's club shall lose a member before the season is out, although I will be glad to retain his friendship."

"Is his heart truly engaged? His proposal to me was very practical – he sought companionship, not love. I do not think Miss Gillingham would do well in a loveless marriage. But he does seem to look at her differently than he ever did me."

"He has not said so directly, but I believe that it is. I think it has taken him by surprise, that he could love again."

"My cousin, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, believes that there are two sorts of love: weak love, and strong love. I have been of a mind with her, and I always thought you could recover from losing a weak love, but not a strong one."

"You were forced to understand that better than most," said he. "I find I agree with her, but it does not follow that a weak love cannot be fulfilling, or even that everyone is like us. I believe David would disagree, yet I know Lord Fitzwilliam is of our way of thinking. Some portion of Bolton's heart may always belong to the first duchess, but I think there is more than enough left for Miss Gillingham. Given her youth, he wishes for her to have the enjoyment of a full season, but I have no doubt she shall receive an offer at the end of it."

"I am glad to hear it."

"That is a fine dress you are wearing," he said next, which Georgiana found strange; she had never heard him speak about fashion in all the time she had known him. "Spitalfields silk, I believe? I understand American cotton has become exceedingly unfashionable."

Georgiana blushed a little but smiled to him. "If men are aware of this, it has surely spread throughout the ton."

He replied that it had.

"Do you know – has there been any impact to the sale of cotton yet?"

"There has not, and you must not expect there will be."

Georgiana's face fell. "But if so many believe it is unfashionable, how can that not impact its sales?"

"Sales may diminish among the ton and perhaps even the middle classes, but they are not _many_. There are a great number of people in the country who cannot afford to buy clothing according to their conscience, and they will continue to purchase whatever cotton is least expensive. Men and women cannot be concerning themselves with the suffering of others when they worry about putting bread upon their own tables."

Georgiana considered what he said and thought about all the people she knew who wore cotton. The villagers of Bishop's Barrow would not care a jot for what Elizabeth Darcy said of fashion, nor could they reasonably choose more expensive fabrics on their limited budgets.

"So it was all for naught," she stated, abashed.

"Nay, do not think that, child. I would not have raised the topic if I did not admire what you and your sister did. If those wives of the ton do feel they should not purchase American cotton, if they turn their minds to the cruelty involved in producing it, they may speak to their husbands of it."

"Oh – and their husbands have votes in Parliament."

"Precisely, my dear. If you influenced even half a dozen votes, it would be a great thing indeed."

"But when will a vote come?"

"Not for some time, I fear, and even then it would only be abolition within our colonies. It will be a long road, Georgiana. I doubt I will live to see the end of it, but I hope you shall."


	66. Part 2, Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

They filled the remainder of their time in town in the usual occupations, and then some. To their great delight, James, George, George, Bess, Emma, and Caroline were all taken to Davis's Amphitheatre and returned home speaking nonstop of feats of equestrienne derring-do. These feats had such an impression on Bess that she thought it would be a great trick to try to stand atop Buttercup's back, an act so dangerously egregious that even the Bingleys were required to discipline her.

Countess Esterházy had her at-home, and there was the theatre, the opera, and an assembly at Almack's, when Elizabeth danced what she admitted must be her last before the baby was born, and was complimented on being able to manage even a staid country dance in her state. Elizabeth did not go shopping for any more dresses – her figure would not long remain as it was – but she did visit the warehouses that had been recommended by Mr. Soane and found he was right, both that she would prefer the lighter English oak of the gothic pieces, and that the warehouses would be eager to accommodate any alterations she wished to make.

Elizabeth had planned one final family dinner, to take place two days before the Darcys and Bingleys departed for Hertfordshire, and the Stantons for Hampshire. _Family_ was liberally defined: the long string of marriages connecting the Averys to the Darcys was considered sufficient because everyone liked them, while Lady Harrison and Lady Catherine de Bourgh were of course not on the list of guests. It was rare to go through in a London drawing-room and find nothing but pleasurable company there, but this was an evening for that strange treat. Elizabeth would have happily sat with any of the ladies following her: Lady Ellen, Marguerite, Anne, Charlotte, Georgiana, and of course Jane. It was Charlotte and Jane who settled near her, though, and Jane who smiled deeply and said,

"Sir Robert is a wonderful man, Charlotte. I am glad to have finally had a chance to get to know him. And little Charlotte is such a dear child! I am so happy for you."

Charlotte blushed, and Elizabeth knew from many conversations with her friend that she was feeling a widow's guilt. Among old friends she seemed inclined to be candid, though, for she said,

"I never thought I could be so happy. I first left Lucas Lodge for security and I still feel it was the right thing to do – even more so now, I suppose, for otherwise the path of my life would not have led me to my Robert. But things are so much easier now. I used to be so exhausted, trying to manage – well, never mind that. Robert and I are always of the same mind on everything."

"I think that is because the two of you are the most practical people I have ever known," Elizabeth teased. "A marriage between two logical, clever people cannot but be a success, and it must be even more so when they are in love."

"I had felt certain of that as well. The only thing that surprised me was little Charlotte, coming so soon," said Charlotte, laying her hand on her belly. "And the little one that shall follow."

Charlotte's manner of telling them she was in the family way had made clear it should not be broadcast to the entire room, and so Elizabeth and Jane made quiet effusions of happiness for her. Yet as she congratulated Charlotte, Elizabeth thought of what her friend had said. Charlotte had married for security at seven and twenty, and she had not been happy in that marriage. Without it, though, there was little chance she would have come to know Sir Robert so well as for the two of them to fall in love and for her to be expecting a second child at three and thirty. Perhaps they might have met via Elizabeth's connection to the de Bourghs, but it did not seem likely; Elizabeth did not have Georgiana's apparent bent for matchmaking, she thought, glancing with a wry smile in her sister's direction.

* * *

Across the drawing-room, Anne was engaged in a far less enjoyable conversation with her aunt and cousin-in-law. It had begun easily enough, with Lady Ellen asking how long Anne and her husband intended to stay in town. Upon hearing that the Averys were going to Hertfordshire with the Darcys and Bingleys to visit Lady Avery's family, and the Smiths intended to return to Rosings, Lady Ellen immediately offered that they could stay with the Fitzwilliams if they wished to remain in town for longer.

Anne thanked her aunt, but said the Smiths were committed to returning home; with the Averys gone for a longer duration they thought it better for the stability of the neighbourhood that they return to residency there.

Lady Ellen nodded her understanding as Marguerite said, "It is a shame you cannot use your own house in town, although of course you have many friends and family who will host you."

"And we are perfectly content to stay with them," stated Anne. "I gave my mother her choice of homes and she chose the town house, which was my preference for her as well. I would not like to have her so near as the dower house at Rosings."

"I saw your mother the other day, on Bond Street. She did not look well," said Marguerite. "I know it is strange for me to ask of this, for she has not been a friend to me, but have you not considered re-reconciling with your mother?"

"I have no interest in reconciling with my mother." Anne glanced to her aunt for support and found in Lady Ellen's knowing look all she needed.

"I know she has not been always good to you, but she is your mother. Deep down she loves you, I am sure," said Marguerite. "I wish often that I could still be seeing my own mother."

"Your mother, I gather, was very different from my own," said Anne, her eyes rapidly filling with tears and then spilling over. "Please do not try to make my mother into someone she is not. She has never been loving, whether as a mother, a spouse, or a child herself."

"Anne." Lady Ellen laid her hand on her niece's arm, her voice soft but with an undertone of warning.

Anne took a deep, tremulous breath and recalled herself, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief.

"I am very sorry, cousin," said Marguerite. "I will not speak of it another time."

By means of further apology, Marguerite walked away for a few minutes, leaving Anne to the quiet, knowing sympathy of her aunt, then returned with tea for her cousin and mother-in-law. They sat in silence until the men came into the drawing-room, when Anne excused herself and said she was going to the conservatory for some air.

It was not long before Thomas entered. He sat silently beside her and took up her hand, and it was his solicitude that broke her. Anne bent over, sobbing as she thought of the things she would never have: a mother's love, a child of her own to love.

In time, she recovered enough to tell him of what had happened, and added, "I thought I had reconciled myself to never having the things I want most, but I was wrong."

"You shouldn't expect yourself to ever be fully reconciled to that, Anne. It is natural to want the things you want, and while you may be able to set them aside much of the time, it will always come back to you in the end, I fear."

"Do _you_ believe I am right, to remain estranged from my mother? I know your mother has been gone for many years, now. Sometimes – even knowing what I know – I still think, what if my mother dies and I regret that I did not reconcile with her while she was still alive?"

"Your mother is not the same as my mother, or Marguerite's mother," Thomas said. "Whatever you choose, it should be your choice."

"Marguerite saw her, on Bond Street. She said she did not look well – Elizabeth said the same."

"Anne, is it that you want to reconcile with her, but feel you should not because of what she did?"

She stifled a sob. He had articulated the thoughts churning deep within her, thoughts she had been afraid to voice, afraid to even acknowledge to herself.

"She is still your mother," Thomas said. "None of us would judge you if you wish to restore some sort of relationship with her."

"I do not know if I can bear to see her, but maybe – maybe I will write to her."

He drew her into an embrace. "I will support you whatever you choose, dear Anne."


	67. Part 2, Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

The Darcys, Bingleys, and Averys all rode to Hertfordshire together, dividing as they came into Meryton to go to their respective parents' houses. They were not to remain separate for long, however, for Mrs. Bennet had planned that the Lucases, Averys, and additional Ramseys – Herbert and Maria had come out for a short visit and would return to Kent with the Averys – should come to dine at Longbourn.

Mr. Bennet and Captain Ramsey were out when the Darcys arrived, but they rode up while the family were still ensuring the children got out of the nursery carriages without any injuries to heads or limbs. The two men looked so natural riding together that for a moment it felt to Elizabeth as though there had never been an entail, as though there had always been a brother within the family. It had been clear for some time that this was how Mr. Bennet regarded Andrew Ramsey; he had sons-in-law aplenty, but only one his estate would pass to. Longbourn was doing better – Darcy's practised eye had noted no less than three improvements in the mile between Meryton and the smaller village – and these could only be attributed to the change in its inheritance. It was difficult to tell who between them had prompted more of the change – whether it had been Andrew Ramsey's enthusiasm to learn or Mr. Bennet's newfound interest in his land once Mr. Collins had ceased being its future custodian – but the change was evident.

Elizabeth turned to find Darcy watching them with a slightly perturbed expression on his countenance. It would not have been noticeable to anyone else, only to the woman who had spent years learning the slightest nuances of a stoic face. She thought she understood him: Captain Ramsey had not only his own still-living father, but also Mr. Bennet to act as a paternal figure within his life. Mr. Bennet could not be thus for Darcy, though, even if he was his father-in-law; by weight of both inherent gravity and consequence, it was Darcy who was the patriarch of their family, and he had lost the one remaining paternal figure in his life last year. He had uncles, but none of them had seemed to fill such a role for him – even his uncle by blood. That particular case, Elizabeth thought, was likely due to the natural reserve on both his part and Lord Brandon's, as well as the relative success of their estates for so many years. At least there were at others of Darcy's own generation he could now turn to for advice – Edward had always been a confidante, and now there was Sir Robert Avery and perhaps even the Duke of Devonshire – but there was no man remaining who looked upon him as Mr. Bennet did to Andrew Ramsey.

Silently, Elizabeth reached down and clasped his hand, keeping it in hers as they went inside the house. Mrs. Bennet had set out a spread within the drawing-room designed to delight her grandchildren, with as many custard tarts as they could eat and as much milk as they could drink served out to most of them, and a big bowlful of porridge for Charles. He sat on his grandmother's lap and was coaxed by her into eating all of it – even if it was not so terrible as Mrs. Liddell's – by her constantly saying that he should "have just another spoonful here, my little Charlie, won't that be nice? Yes, just another spoonful."

Little Charlie was not Mrs. Bennet's favourite, however. Nor was Bess, who had been her first grandchild born, nor James, who had enjoyed a long run of favouritism as the heir to Pemberley. No, Mrs. Bennet's favourite was now little Cate, the daughter of her favourite child and the future mistress of her home, and it was plain Cate would never be supplanted. The adults were fed on tea and what custard tarts the children left behind, and once Charles had finished his porridge and was drowsing in his grandmother's lap, they were treated to a minute recounting of all of little Cate's developments since they had seen her last. These were numerous and unsurprising for the Bingleys and Darcys – with five children and one ward between them – but they all listened with forbearance.

Little Cate's namesake came down during this recounting, saying the baby was sleeping, else she would have brought her down for them to see. Catherine looked more at peace than she had before, Elizabeth thought, more as though she had settled into her role as a mother. Elizabeth hoped dearly that this was true.

* * *

Mrs. Bennet passed the remainder of her afternoon in seeing all of her nephews and nieces settled into the nursery, and then in a brief showing of her daughters' dresses from the Vauxhall night. She was delighted that the old favourite of her own had fitted Jane so well, but still more delighted to see Elizabeth in her sapphires and chemise a la reine, the one she had read so much about in the papers. They passed a pleasant hour talking of the Vauxhall evening in Mrs. Bennet's dressing-room, and then went to change again for dinner.

That event was cause for further delight by Mrs. Bennet: she had mostly held to the economies Catherine had endeavoured to institute – economies she knew would someday support her jointure as a widow – but had determined this dinner was special, and nothing less than three courses of Cook's very best would do.

She was endeavouring to impress the Lucases, Averys, and Ramseys – the latter couple comprised of a happy Herbert and a visibly pregnant Maria – and they all knew this, but still, the atmosphere was convivial. Some members of their families were missing, and those who knew Lydia would _always_ now be missing must think of her with a strong pang of sadness, but the daughters of these two families had not been back together in this neighbourhood in many years, and they had many reminiscences to share, many stories to recall.

After the cloth was removed and a vast array of dried fruits, preserves, nuts, and cheeses laid out, Lady Lucas looked to Mrs. Bennet and said, "It must be so nice, for you to have a grandchild who will grow up within the nursery here."

"Oh it is! I love them all, of course, but to have one I shall not have to travel to see, 'tis such a relief."

"She will not always be here. We still have our house in Bath," said Catherine, although she added upon seeing the crestfallen look of her mother's countenance, "I am sure we shall be here often, though. After all, she is the heiress to Longbourn, so it will be important for her to know the estate from a young age."

"Heiress presumptive, my dear," corrected Mrs. Bennet. "I refuse to believe Lizzy will be the only one of my daughters to have boys."

It showed a quickness of mind Elizabeth would not normally have associated with her mother, and immediately prevented any conjectures on the part of Mrs. Bennet's guests as to why Catherine was so certain she would leave her _daughter_ the estate. Impressed, Elizabeth caught her mother's eye and nodded, just slightly, but enough that Mrs. Bennet comprehended her, for she nodded in return. It was then that Elizabeth felt rattled, for she had never had such a moment of perfect understanding with her mother, and it was strange to finally come to it at the age of seven and twenty.

* * *

Catherine held little Cate as she watched the chaos in the drive, glad she was not a part of it. She would have liked to be there to support Lizzy as she gave birth, but she and Andrew had agreed it was better for the child to have some stability at this point in her life, and that meant staying at Longbourn. They intended to do so at least until she was walking, and although Catherine had corrected her mother at dinner last night – and then been rather shrewdly corrected by Mrs. Bennet – she foresaw the Ramseys giving up the house in Bath within the next few years. They could still visit and take lodgings for a few weeks or even months – likely when Mrs. Bennet was most fraying her daughter's patience – but it felt right for Cate to grow up within Longbourn, to have the same sort of country upbringing Catherine had known, albeit a more structured one, for Catherine was determined her daughter should have a better education than any of the Bennet girls had known.

Her daughter. That thought slipped through more and more often, now. It was easy for it to do so, when it was Catherine whose presence invariably made the child smile, Catherine she wanted to snuggle when she was upset, Catherine she babbled to most loquaciously. Catherine had found her peace with this when she had decided that a child – at least this child – could have two mothers: the mother who had given her life so she could exist, and the one who would give her the love and life Lydia had wanted for her.

She returned her attention to the chaos in the drive, which was growing. Mrs. Bennet had invited all of her grandchildren to ride in the carriage with her, and all of them as well as George Nichols had decided this would be a great lark and were endeavouring to pile themselves in as best they could. They were small and it was likely they would fit, but Mr. Bennet wisely exited that carriage and took a place with Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy in their post-chaise. This would all be rearranged soon, Catherine knew. Possibly as soon as the next coaching inn, Mrs. Bennet would realise the presence of so many children and their squealings and squallings was prompting a nervous attack, and either the children would be left within that carriage with a nurse and Mrs. Bennet soothed by Jane in the Bingley carriage, or the children would all be made to leave and redistribute themselves among the nursery carriages, with Mr. Bennet restored to his wife.

Catherine would be spared all of this, and she was glad. Not just to be spared a chaotic journey, but to be left behind at Longbourn. She and Andrew and Cate had been among company the entire time they had been a family, and now was their chance to be here together privately, in the house they would someday own. Andrew put his arm around her and she leaned against him, as they watched the carriages roll down the drive.


	68. Part 2, Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

It was only two more days until Lady Day, and the Stantons had returned home to find a sort of encampment on their grounds. They had given permission for John Taylor to do so, and yet it was still strange to arrive there and find tents had been pitched outside the stables, with both people and additional horses living within. One tent held foodstuffs, casks of spirits, ale, and wine, as well as furniture, although the best pieces were stored in the house or the stables to afford them greater protection from the elements. Matthew had discovered in the estate's paperwork that some of the inn's beds belonged to the great house, having outlived their welcome within and been loaned out indefinitely. As the days had crept towards Lady Day, therefore, the increasing number of seamen and future ostlers and grooms who had taken rooms at the inn had set about surreptitiously replacing the ropes and mattresses, so at least some bedrooms would be ready when the Taylors took possession.

This work was explained to them by John Taylor, who had requested an audience in the library after Georgiana and Matthew were settled from their travels. He had come to this conference with his wife and a large object wrapped in canvas, and once the Taylors had thanked them profusely for allowing such a degree of upheaval on their grounds and in their stables, Moll said,

"We've somethin' we'd like to show ye both. We'd a thought of what we wanted the inn to be named, and had the sign painted up. But we won't use it without yer blessin', both of ye."

John Taylor unwrapped the canvas from the item, revealing a brightly painted inn sign. It had the Stantons's arms upon it, along with the name: "The Captain's Arms."

Matthew blushed – quite adorably, Georgiana thought – and seemed disinclined to say anything. So she turned to the Taylors and said, "I like it very well. It's nicely done and ought to make clear this is no longer the same inn."

"Aye, milady," said Moll eagerly. "That's why we wanted to do it. An' also as a way of thankin' ye both fer how good you've been to us."

"Do we have yer blessin', captain?" asked Taylor.

"You do," said Matthew, his countenance still tinged with pink.

Aside from this conversation, the Stantons had no involvement in the final work undertaken by the Captain's Arm's new tenants. They were more agreeably engaged in the library, mapping out a plan for their voyage from Liverpool to Trieste and then overland to Vienna, with a leisurely return via Venice. Lieutenant Grant had recruited the remaining members of the necessary crew in their absence, save a midshipman or master's mate. This was to be left to Matthew's purview and was likely to be Midshipman Willmer, so long as he was still available when Matthew rode into Portsmouth on the morrow.

Georgiana's only concern for the voyage was Caroline. The child had not been happy about leaving her friends in London, although she had perked up upon returning home and recalling her pony. She could be appeased into the leaving of Blaze with the thought of some time in Pemberley's nursery with her friends while they awaited the arrival of her newest cousin, but their stay would not be a long one unless the new babe was late in coming, and then she would return to a shipboard life without any of her cousins or friends. Georgiana hoped that Dog would continue to serve as a constant, for although the child cried over the initial changes in her situation, her tears had not been lasting, both because they had been lapped up by that creature and because a snuggle with Dog in the carriage had restored much of the child's good humour. Georgiana hoped the creature's influence would always be so cheering.

* * *

The Stantons were awakened that night by a pounding on their door. This was not at first incongruous to either of them; Matthew did sometimes need to be awakened by his crew at odd hours of the night because the officer of the watch had determined some matter or another required the attention of the captain. It became incongruous only when both of them sat up in bed and realised they were on dry land and such matters should not be necessary.

"Stay in bed, dearest. I will see what the matter is," said Matthew.

He rose and opened the door, and Georgiana heard Hawke's voice, telling him, "Ol' Ned Tilley tried'a set fire to the place. They're a-restrainin' 'im an' I said I'd wake ye and see what ought'a be done."

Upon hearing this, Georgiana rose from the bed and pulled on her dressing-gown. Matthew thanked Hawke and said he would be there shortly, then closed the door.

"Wait – tell him to send for Brigid to help me dress," she said.

Matthew chuckled and came over, taking up her hand. "Dearest, I know we have not discussed how we wish to handle violent tenants who have endeavoured to commit arson on our property, but I suppose I felt that should be within my purview."

Upon hearing him put it this way, Georgiana laughed as well. He kissed her, then said, "Go back to bed. I will return as soon as I can."

He left, and a few minutes later there was a knock at the door. Before Georgiana could rise to open it, Bowden's voice called out: "'Tis me, milady, no need'a openin' the door. Jus' wantin' ye to know I'm a'waitin' out here 'till the captain returns. You jus' let me know if'n you need anything."

"Thank you, Bowden, that's very good of you," Georgiana called out. It seemed rather excessive to Georgiana to have Bowden posted as a guard outside her door, but then again, she recalled those awful moments on the Caroline when she had cried out for help and no-one had been there. And there _was_ a man out there who wished her a great degree of ill-will.

She felt comfortable enough that she fell back asleep without any difficulty, and only awakened some hours later when Matthew returned. The room was filled with that grey softness that comes just before dawn, and he said,

"Tilley was clever about it. I will give him that. He set it in the kitchen, and with no witnesses."

"How much damage was there?"

"Thankfully very little. The seamen were spending their stipend in the tap-room as only seamen can, and although they were all in their cups they smelled the smoke readily enough. They tied him up and put out the fire. There'll be a great deal of cleaning to do, but it is not as though the place did not already need a great deal of cleaning – in truth I think the smell of smoke was some improvement."

"So where is Tilley?"

"He loaded up the waggon he hired and drove off to Southampton. I told him I would give him twenty pounds to pay for his travel if he would promise to go as far as he could and endeavour to start a new life there. We agreed upon Newcastle, although he intends to sell most of his possessions in Southampton first. I doubt he'll ever make it half that far. I expect he will live out the remainder of his days in whatever unfortunate town or village he decides to stop in, drinking through his funds. But he knows if he returns, I will bring him before a magistrate for arson, and it is by no means certain he will be acquitted."

Georgiana nodded. "I think that is for the best. It would not be auspicious for the inn, to see the former innkeeper hanged."

"Indeed."

"So who will manage it, in the time remaining before Lady Day?"

"Technically the innkeeper is absent, but as landlord I thought it was prudent to send the estate's carpenter and our best maid to set about repairing and cleaning it, and I gave them leave to stay overnight, if they felt it necessary."

Georgiana smiled. "Very prudent indeed. Now come back to bed."

* * *

They left the Taylors to their cleaning and repairs that day. Georgiana's only sense of the progress came when she took Caroline to the stables for their ride, for the tents in the yard had been struck, all of the horses and people gone to their new place of employment. Some of the furniture was gone from the stables as well, although by no means all of it.

She and Matthew rode down on Lady Day, though, feeling it important to make a public display of support. The exterior was little changed save the new sign swinging in the breeze, but the sign did make a goodly difference; as the Taylors had intended, it was a strong statement that this was now a different place.

Their horses were taken promptly by a groom, and they entered the inn to find the interior had altered substantially. The architecture, of course, had not changed, but the floors had been holystoned and the walls scrubbed and painted, so that the smell was now that of the wood fire burning in the vast old hearth, interspersed with the occasional whiff of paint. These things made a substantial difference, as did the new furnishings that could be seen in both the tap-room and the common dining-room.

No sooner had they closed the door behind them than Moll was running up to them. "Oh, it's right kind of ye both to come an' see us."

"You have done much in very little time!" exclaimed Georgiana.

"If'n there's one thing I've learned, milady, it's that men of the navy can set a mess to rights in no time."

"I quite agree, Mrs. Kelly," said Matthew. "Lady Stanton and I thought we would dine here this evening. If you could accommodate us in the common dining-room, perhaps at a window, we would be much obliged to you."

For all its improved looks, the common dining-room was empty, so it was nothing at all for Moll to accommodate them. She understood what they were about, though, and seated them as they had requested, right at a window, where all of the village and any other passersby could see them. Moll served them wine, and shortly thereafter the first of Mrs. Carroll's ordinary, a pepper-pot soup far more warming than the fire. This was followed by fish-cakes, corn-bread, tongue pie, and then hefty slices of potato pudding. By the time the latter came around they were both entirely full, but they adored Mrs. Carroll's potato pudding too much to leave it uneaten, and struggled through. When they were finished, Moll came and picked up their plates with an expression of pride upon her countenance.

"If Mrs. Carroll is not too busy, I would like to compliment her on the meal and see how she does," said Georgiana. "I cannot say I am surprised by the quality of her cooking, but it was all delicious."

"I'm sure she'd be glad ta see ye, milady. None of us is too busy, as-yet, aside from cleanin' and repairs. Come on back with me, if ye please."

"Have you had – any – custom?" asked Georgiana.

"Hardly any 'cept folks from the village who was curious, but we weren't 'spectin' it. An' the coachman of the Sou'hampton Flyer said we changed horses five times as fast as usual and he was right delighted when we gave him a slice of potato pudding," said Moll. "Comp'iment'ry-like, so long's he spreads the word if'n he liked it, and ye can be sure he liked it. It's gonna take a l'il time, to make people know this place ain't what it used to be, but we'll do it, milady. I feel it in me bones, that we can do it."

Moll led them back into a kitchen that did not look at all as though it had been set on fire two days previously, where Mrs. Carroll and Priscilla were rolling out dough upon a vast wooden table.

"My lady, sir," said Mrs. Caroll, curtseying. In this she was followed by her daughter, and they both looked expectantly at the Stantons.

"We just wished to compliment you on such an excellent meal, and see how you are getting on so far here," said Georgiana.

"Thank you, my lady," said Mrs. Carroll. "We're gettin' on very well, Priscilla and me."

"I am glad to hear it," said Georgiana.

They all stood in awkward silence for some moments until Mrs. Carroll, nervously picking pieces of dough off of her fingers, said, "My lady, I heard ye attends a society, that's tryin' to stop slavery, an' I was wonderin' if I could attend. That is if Mrs. Taylor says I can – I could get up extry early in the mornin' that day, an' make sure the meal was all a'warmin' on the fire. An' Priscilla could stay if anythin' was needed."

"Of course ye can attend," said Moll. "We'll manage well enough here. An' ye get a half-day off anyway – we can sure enough make it that day if ye wish."

"I would be very pleased if you would attend," said Georgiana. "The society would so benefit from your participation. It is held in Southampton and I am sure we can arrange for your transportation there. I fear I will be out of the country for the next meeting, but I can write to one of the members of the society, so she knows to welcome you."

* * *

The next morning, Georgiana rang the bell and sighed. She would adjust to having Brigid as her maid eventually, but while her mind could comprehend that Brigid was likely to be a better and more stable maid for her in the years to come, her heart could not yet let go of the outgoing, talkative woman Brigid was replacing. She was expecting the door from the servant's stairs to open quietly, and Brigid to make her mouse-like steps in to where her mistress stood, and therefore it was a great shock when the door clapped open and Moll burst in.

"Moll! Good God, what are you doing here?"

"I meant to have one last mornin' of dressin' ye, but then Ned Tilley had other ideas an' I was too busy yester-morn to come back, milady. So I told Brigid I'd do it this mornin'."

"You did not need to do that, Moll. It is not as though this is good-bye. We will still see a great deal of each other."

"Aye, an' it's likely Brigid would've done a better job of your hair, so I'm sorry fer that. But I wanted to come back one last time like this and say thank ye, for so many things. I know I wouldn't have been your first choice 'cept that I've got a stout stomach, but I'm that glad ye took me on, milady. You changed my life – I saw the world an' met the man I love an' now I'm a'runnin' a business. All the good things that's come to me have come through ye, milady, an' I'm that grateful."

Georgiana's eyes filled with tears as she listened to this, and when Moll had finished speaking, she reached out and embraced her former maid.

"You have earned what has come to you, Moll, but I meant what I said. This is not good-bye. Things will change for the two of us, but I think of it as a new beginning." Georgiana stepped back and held out her hand, and Moll took it to shake it. "Let us celebrate our new partnership and pray for the success of the Captain's Arms inn."

"Aye, let us celebrate," said Moll. Then she winked and added, "An' let's be grateful it weren't a month or so later, fer it'd be a bit of a scandal fer ye to have a maid that all could see is carryin' a baby."

"You are in the family way? I am so happy for you, Moll."

"Aye, milady, I am. I've got to remember to say it like that – it's more genteel an' all."

* * *

Georgiana had intended to write to Mrs. Prescott, to inform her of Mrs. Carroll's interest in the society, but found she did not need to, for the day following Moll's precipitate entry into her dressing-room, Norton announced that Mrs. Prescott was there to call. Georgiana had never thought of this possibility, so she was glad their neighbourhood had thus far proven to be a congenial one, leaving the Stantons open to visits from any potential callers. She was even more glad when it became immediately clear that Mrs. Prescott was very nervous about the call; if she had been turned away, Georgiana did not think even the warmest invitation might have encouraged her to return.

"I am so sorry – I did not – your clothes – and you're a baronet's wife – and your uncles are noblemen – I should have understood – this place is so grand – pray let me leave and do not judge me too terribly for it – my husband had business in Portsmouth – I thought – "

"Please do not make yourself uneasy, Mrs. Prescott. I am very glad to see you. Indeed, I had been intending to write to you."

"Oh – oh – write to _me_?"

"Yes, I believe you will recall the slaves my uncle purchased, at the market in Baltimore?" Mrs. Prescott nervously replied that she did, and Georgiana continued: "One of them is an exceptional cook, and she has settled with her daughter at our – at the inn within the local village here. She had interest in attending the society, but I will be en route to Vienna when the next meeting is held, and I was hoping you could look after her."

"Vienna?" Mrs. Prescott blinked.

"Yes, my husband and I are very fond of music," said Georgiana.

"Goodness, you lead an interesting life. This woman, she was an actual slave, and she wants to be a part of our society?"

"Yes. I told her I thought her participation would be very beneficial."

"Beneficial? It would be everything!" cried Mrs. Prescott. "I know I spoke to you about publishing your experiences, but she has lived life as a slave – the things she must have seen and experienced – oh but I asked you first and I wouldn't want you to – "

"I completely agree that Mrs. Carroll's is a far more important account. Watching a slave auction can be nothing compared to – to being sold," Georgiana said. "And since I will not be here for the next meeting, I hope the society will allow me to fund the cost of publication. If you would like, we can go down to the inn for a little refreshment and you may meet her."

Mrs. Prescott replied that she would like that very much, and they went thither. Once again Georgiana requested a table within the common dining-room, and when they were seated Mrs. Prescott, seeming to be more relaxed in such surroundings, said,

"I'm surprised you would dine here and not in a private room."

"In another inn I would, but we own this place and are keen for our tenants to succeed – they only recently took over the lease. My former maid and a man who served under my husband."

"Ah – I thought she seemed rather familiar with you."

Moll brought them tea and plumb cake, and Mrs. Prescott said she would have liked it very well even if she was not keen to meet the woman who had baked it. "I'll tell my husband of this place – it was always such a run-down establishment we never stopped here, but it would be quite convenient for us. We often return to Southampton in the evening after he's concluded his business, and I'd much rather dine here at our usual hour than later at home."

"I am sure Mrs. Taylor would be very happy for your custom."

When Moll returned, Georgiana told her of Mrs. Prescott's connection to her, and that she was eager to meet Mrs. Carroll and encourage her to attend the society. Once again Moll led her genteel party back to the kitchen, where Mrs. Carroll was stirring a great pot of something over the fire.

"Goodness, that smells delicious! I think I might tell Mr. Prescott we should dine here tonight!" exclaimed Mrs. Prescott.

Mrs. Carroll spun around and curtseyed, and the two women were introduced.

"We would be so honoured to have you join our society, Mrs. Carroll. And perhaps it is too soon to put this to you, but I hope you will consider letting us publish an account of your experiences."

Mrs. Carroll seemed taken aback by Mrs. Prescott's eagerness. "I wish I could write an account of things but I can't write – I wasn't allowed to learn."

"Oh – oh but that's awful. I'm sure any one of us would be willing to take down what you say in writing, though," replied Mrs. Prescott.

"I think I'd like to do it, then, my lady," said Mrs. Carroll. "I know Lady Stanton will be leaving soon, but maybe I could tell me story to ye?"

"Of course – I'd be honoured to take down your story and introduce you to the society."

Mrs. Carroll nodded. "I didn't think ye'd be so friendly to the likes of me."

Mrs. Prescott did not seem to know how to respond to this, so Georgiana said, "If everyone in the world was as friendly as Mrs. Prescott is – to everyone – it would be a much better place."

* * *

Given the inn was now to be considered a safe place, Georgiana had given Bowden leave to roam the village as he wished for an hour, and when she returned to the carriage she found his occupations had included getting the post, for he handed her a letter. It was from Viscount Huntston, and she gazed at it curiously as she said her goodbye to Mrs. Prescott, then satisfied that curiosity during the drive back to Stanton Hall:

"Dear Lady Stanton,

"I wished for you to know before you saw it in the papers that I am engaged to be married to Lady Julia Barton. I believe she was not the match you had intended for me, but know that I am exceedingly grateful to you for the opportunity to meet her.

"I have wished often that I had not been so hasty to resign my naval commission. At the time I could see no other option, but I know there are some captains who own estates and manage them from afar. As a viscount I would have been assured promotion to the rank of captain – the one thing that had been my life's goal.

"I have digressed, I find. I think you have sensed that I have felt terribly uncomfortable in this new role of mine. It is so very different from everything I have known, and Lady Julia's mere presence puts me at ease. She knows everyone and everything, and she has such an elegance about her, such confidence to be in society. I admired her from our first meeting, and I am fortunate that she has her own admiration for men of the navy – and that she classes myself as one still. She admires our dedication, she says, our toughness and bravery, our practicality. She had even recalled my name, from various accounts in the newspapers, and when I told her of my own perspective of our various actions, I do not think I have ever known such an attentive listener.

"By the time I departed Vauxhall I knew she was exactly the right woman to be my wife, and we have endeavoured to be in company together as much as possible since. I think you are aware that she was engaged to be married to Captain Ponsonby before he died of fever, and out of respect for both of them I wished to give her time to come to know me better before making my offer. But I did so yesterday, and she accepted my hand.

"I hope you and Captain Stanton and the children are well. I understand I may not see you before you depart for your travels, so let me wish you fair winds and following seas, and much happiness on your voyage. Perhaps the future Lady Huntston and I may host you at Wodleigh upon your return.

"Your most humble and obedient servant,

"HUNTSTON"

The letter put Georgiana in a state of some perturbation, and she came into the house and then the library with this evident upon her countenance, for Matthew looked up at her from his seat at the desk and said, "Dearest, whatever is the matter?"

Georgiana handed him the letter, and upon reading the first few lines, Matthew said, "Ah. Will it be strange for you to be in company with Lady Julia more often?"

"No, I do not think so. You have managed it well with the Duke of Bolton; I shall be able to do the same with Lady Julia."

Matthew read on, and frowned. "What bothers you so, then? He seems very happy with the match."

"Yes, but never once in the whole letter does he use the word _love_!"

"It would not be the first marriage based on mutual respect and admiration, nor the last, I expect. 'Tis far better than some alternatives, and where Egerton – I am sorry, Huntston – is concerned, there are perhaps other considerations."

"What do you mean?"

"I have – I have suspected that Hunston – that he does not favour women so much as he does men."

It took Georgiana some moments to comprehend what he indicated, and then she whispered, "Do you mean he is homosexual?"

"I cannot say for certain, but there have been many times when I have suspected it."

"Did it not bother you, the thought of serving with such a man, of living on board a ship with him?"

Matthew shrugged. "Whatever were my suspicions – _if_ they were accurate – he never acted upon them. That would have been a problem for discipline, of course, for him to have that sort of relationship with one of the other officers – or worse still, a subordinate."

"Do you think Lady Julia knows?"

"I do not think he is the sort of man to keep that secret from his future bride," Matthew said. "Perhaps that was even part of the appeal, for Lady Julia. She has lost the betrothed she loved, and by marrying Huntston she becomes a viscountess and avoids spinsterhood. He will treat her well even if there is no romantic love between them, of that I am certain."

"Still, I cannot imagine being the wife of such a marriage," said Georgiana, glad in that moment that the matches had come out differently than she had intended. Lady Julia might be willing to compromise and marry for companionship rather than love, but a young lady of Miss Gillingham's spirits needed romance.

"It is by no means certain that _is_ his nature, and indeed we should conjecture no more on the subject – it is dangerous for him, if it is true," Matthew said. "Regardless of his exact motivations, I think we must accept that there are different sorts of marriage, and perhaps even different sorts of love. The hotter the flame, the easier it is to be burned. You know that, dearest – you have lived it too many times."

"I would still do it all again. From the moment I knew my heart needed yours, I could have made no other choice."

Matthew rose, and drew her into a tight embrace. "I thank God you did, dearest, and I thank Him for making you strong enough to deal with the consequences of that choice."


	69. Part 2, Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

The Darcy, Bennet, and Bingley carriages parted at Matlock, for the Bingleys were to go to their own estate for some days before coming out to Pemberley. The Darcys and Bennets arrived at Pemberley two and a half hours later, Elizabeth filled with delightful anticipation to see how the work on her rooms had come out. She was made to wait, however, for both her parents and the children needed to be settled into their various rooms, but once both the older and the younger generation had been seen to, she walked as quickly as she could in her present state to her bedroom.

"Oh!" she breathed, as she opened the door. Everything was as expected, of course, but it was one thing to see it in Mr. Soane's sketches and quite another to see it as an actual room, to step inside and be surrounded by the mural of ruins, mountains, and lakes. She walked over to the archway painted over the entrance to the closet, and found only upon the minutest inspection could she see the door – the dark lines comprising part of the arch concealed it ever so well, and when she pushed on the door to open it, she could see it had been carved perfectly into that shape. Elizabeth left the closet door open, not wishing to bend down to pull on the new ribbon at her present size, but stepped back into the bedroom and gazed now at the furniture. It all seemed to fit perfectly within the room, the canopy bed draped with the fabric that had begun the whole project, the chairs covered with the same, all of them trimmed lightly with gothic patterns in English oak and restrained of too much frippery, just as she had requested. The new fireplace looked well, and the only things that marred the room were the old gilded chaise and carpet. The new sofa was still being carved by Morgan and Sanders, and the carpet woven in Axminster. It was more than enough, though, to feel the effect of the room, to see that it had met her vision, and with much pleasure she went into her dressing-room to find another beautiful lake scene and all of the furnishings she had requested.

"This is remarkable, Elizabeth," came Darcy's voice from the bedchamber.

Elizabeth went back into that room and said, smilingly, "I put off doing this for so long, and now that it is nearly done, I wish I had embarked on the project much sooner. But then again perhaps if I had redecorated it sooner, it might have been more in the usual style. Now it pleases me so much, to be in these rooms."

"So much I think we might have to change our sleeping arrangements," said he.

"Perhaps. I do still like your rooms, though, so maybe we shall spend one week here and the next in your bedchamber, and so on. And I am very glad I shall spend my confinement here – it will be so much more pleasant, not to mention comfortable."

"Have you seen your study yet?"

"No, I had intended to go there next."

"Let me walk with you, then." He offered his arm and they walked down the stairs together. Elizabeth made him open the door, eagerly anticipating his reaction, which was a long, deep chuckle at the furnishings he found within.

He walked over to the new library bookcase, which had been filled with various items at Elizabeth's direction: statues of thoroughbred horses, volumes of prints, books on horsemanship and hunting, and new copies of some of Darcy's favourite poetry.

"White's, Tattersalls, and a Grand Tour all together – you have achieved it very well, I think. Everything is arranged to tempt a gentleman to linger for many hours." He opened one of the bookcase doors and drew out a volume of prints, went to the new side table to pour himself a brandy from the decanter there, and then seated himself at one of the red morocco leather chairs before the fire, stretching out his legs casually. "I don't intend to leave, you know."

"Then I have succeeded," she replied archly, taking out another volume of prints and seating herself in the other chair to peruse them.

* * *

There was one additional room in the house that had been redone, but Elizabeth did not go to see it until the day after their arrival. The room where Lydia had died must remain as it was, if it was a comfort to Jane; although they would never use it as a bedroom again. But in trying to determine what to do with Lady Anne's old furnishings, Elizabeth had decided some of them could be used to make over the room where Mrs. Nichols had died.

The effect was strange, when she opened the door. The vast bed seemed too large in this space, all the gilt pieces and panelling even more overwhelming in the smaller room. At least, though, some of Lady Anne's old pieces would be preserved, and it no longer looked anything like the room where the nurse had died. This they would use as a guest bedroom, if ever they had guests that did not merit the state rooms but thought themselves deserving of grandeur – Lady Catherine and Lady Harrison came to mind, and although Elizabeth had little desire to host either of them, she supposed there was still some possibility that circumstances might require it someday. After all, they were still family, although Elizabeth thought the Darcys would be exceedingly cautious with any invitations involving Lady Catherine.

Following this, she settled into that strange period of waiting that comes when one is so near to having a child. She was too large to walk far and instead returned to her curricle rides with Darcy about the grounds on days when the weather was fine. When it was not, they were often to be found in her study, Darcy's presence there so constant she was certain he was teasing her. She enjoyed the teasing, however, and there were only two things to mar this time. The first was poor Mrs. Bennet's sorrow at being returned to the place where Lydia had died: she had never been a great walker and age had not improved this, yet every day regardless of the weather, she made a pilgrimage to the cemetery, to visit her youngest daughter. A carriage was offered to her, to lessen the journey, but Mrs. Bennet declined this; she wanted to be alone with her Lydia.

The second thing was the difficulties with Silas Metcalfe. Marshall had been very pleased with the groom and Silas very happy with his work, so it had seemed all would be well. Yet Elizabeth was not the only creature soon to give birth on the Pemberley estate; all of the broodmares drew closer to the same. It was a tricky business, Darcy had said, for the mares were bred in the hopes their foals would be born in early spring so as to have all of the spring, summer, and autumn to develop, but early spring could be very cold this far north, and hard on the young foals if they were born _too_ early. If all went well, it would be at least another fortnight before any foals were born, but there was a slight possibility that one could be born any day now. Silas had grasped onto this possibility and his mother had been having increasing difficulties in convincing him to leave each evening, until finally there came a night when he refused to go. Mrs. Metcalfe had gone to get her husband, but he could not coax or force the boy, and ultimately Darcy had been summoned out by Marshall to see what could be done.

What had been done was the only thing they really could do, which was to allow Silas to stay overnight and see how he did. One of the other grooms always slept in a cot by the foaling boxes during this time, and as it was Alfred's night, he said he would be glad enough of the company if another cot was brought in. Alfred's statement was not entirely altruistic – if Silas _could_ manage a night in the stables it would mean fewer watches for the other grooms – but Pemberley's grooms were a good-humoured group and had accepted Silas readily enough, for if Kestrel approved of the lad and he worked as hard as he did, who were they to judge him on a little oddness?

Marshall came to see his master the next morning, reporting that Silas had passed the night quite well aside from his disappointment that none of the mares had begun her labours. He had been recalled to the need to wash and eat by the other grooms, and then gone about his duties with his usual focus. Elizabeth heard all of this because Marshall had found his master within the mistress's study, and thus she knew the conclusion of his statement was: "I think the lad can stay overnight at least through foaling season, sir, and by the time he does that we may as well have him stay on permanently. He needs a bit of minding to care for himself rather than the horses, but we can all manage that, I think."

Upon hearing this, Elizabeth's thoughts were of poor Mrs. Metcalfe, who could not have expected her son would ever leave the house and go to live elsewhere. Yes, Pemberley's stables were within walking distance and she might still see him every day, but it would not be the same. As a mother loathing the day when she would have to send her own sons to school, Elizabeth sympathized deeply with the woman, and went to see her later that day.

"I wanted to check on you," she said, after she had been invited to sit at the kitchen table. "I know it cannot be easy to have your son leave the house, when you cannot have expected he would ever do so."

Poor Mrs. Metcalfe burst into tears at this. Elizabeth reached across the table and grasped the woman's hand. "At least he is near – at least you can still see him easily."

"That's not why I'm cryin', ma'am. T'will be strange, not havin' Silas 'round the house, an' I doubt he'll take his half-days to come spend them with us – he'll just want to keep workin' with those horses, so we'll have to go an' see him instead. But I'm cryin' 'cause ever since I knew Silas weren't like other boys, I've been worried about what'd happen to him once me and Mr. Metcalfe was gone. We've been tryin' to save a little, to pay someone to take him in, but we had to use some of what we saved during those bad years."

"We would have helped Silas," said Elizabeth. "Pemberley always takes care of our own."

"I know, ma'am, and that's the only thing that let me sleep at night. But now I don't need to worry at all – Silas has a position, and he can have a life that makes him happy. He won't be livin' on charity – he'll be earnin' his way in the world, same as any other man. I never thought he could have that, an' I'm that grateful to you and Mr. Darcy."

"In this, I think the credit must go to Mr. Darcy. He saw the potential in Silas to do this before any of the rest of us."

Mrs. Metcalfe nodded, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron. "There is one thing he'll still need Pemberley's charity on – he won't be able to manage his own money. As long as we live, Mr. Metcalfe and I can do it, but someday he'll need that help. Money don't mean nothin', to Silas."

"I am certain that when the time comes closer, someone on the estate can be entrusted with that role and given power of attorney for him. Let us hope we shall not need to worry over that for many years, but that is no difficult commitment for me to make on our behalf."

"God bless ye, ma'am. God bless ye an' Mr. Darcy. Even just that ye came here in your state to see me – I'm ever so grateful."

"'Tis nothing," said Elizabeth. "My riding days may be done for some time, but I can certainly manage a short carriage ride."

"Maybe 'tis nothing to ye, ma'm, but it's a lot more to me."

* * *

They spent another quiet evening in the drawing-room, quiet in spite of having all of the children brought down from the nursery. The older boys gave another demonstration of their reading skills to their parents and grandparents while Charles had a good, long snuggle with his grandmother, who seemed to garner some comfort from this. Once James, George, and George had each taken their turn, it was agreed they should all retire, and Elizabeth and her husband settled in under the silken ivy canopy that covered her bed.

She had found the style of these beds aesthetically preferable, but had not fully realised the greater intimacy that would result both from the low covering and the narrower width, and Elizabeth found she liked it very much. These beds were more typically used when there was but one to sleep in them, but when one liked to sleep close to one's bedfellow they could work exceedingly well for two.

Darcy seemed to be in agreement, for he slid up close behind her and slipped his arm around her belly, murmuring into her hair, "There is nothing better than sleeping beside a pregnant woman on a cold night. You are several times hotter than the fire, my dear."

She chuckled. "Remind yourself of that when I am rising several times in the night to relieve myself."

"I will need no reminder, for suddenly my bed will be very cold." He shifted, to kiss her neck. "Good night, Elizabeth."

"Good night, my love."

It was not Elizabeth that awakened them both, though, but instead a pounding upon their door. Elizabeth awoke from as deep a sleep as she could manage these days, to see Darcy already striding towards the door. He opened it and revealed Charles Bingley.

Elizabeth sat up and pressed her hand to her chest. "Jane! Is something the matter with Jane, or the children?"

Charles shook his head. "No, they are all well – I am sorry to alarm you, Lizzy. It's trouble between two of my tenants. There's been some bad blood between them since before we bought the estate, and it seems tonight it boiled over at the village inn. One stabbed the other, and we're not sure if he'll live. Mr. Kinsley has gone to town – Darcy is the next closest magistrate."

"Oh." Elizabeth exhaled in relief, feeling a bit guilty to be doing so when a man who was likely a husband and a father might lay dying. But he was unknown to her, and Jane was Jane.

"Let me get dressed," said Darcy. "Will you wait down in my study?"

Charles nodded, and closed the door. Darcy came over to the bed and touched his wife's cheek. "I do not like leaving you when you are this far along."

"I am not so very far along – Dr. Whittling does not even arrive until tomorrow, and he thought that rather early. And it is not as though I am all by myself. I have but to ring the bell and I can summon all of Pemberley to aid me." She laid her hand over his. "This is your duty now, and it is one we agreed you should take on. Although I fear you shall have a colder night of it than you anticipated. You had better hope Charles thought to have them put his carriage bricks in the hall fire."

He chuckled. "You are sure?"

"I am. Now kiss me good-bye and get on with it so you may return home all the sooner."

He did as he was commanded, and Elizabeth laid back down in the bed. It took some time for her to return to sleep – her heart was still racing a little from the fright she had received over Jane's health. Sleep did find her eventually, though, and she woke to a fine morning, chilly but sunny. Sarah came and dressed her, and as she had slept past the usual breakfast hour, she decided to take the meal at the little table by the fire and then go up to the nursery. When she had breakfasted, Henry came in to clear the service – a pretty little set she had bought to match the room – and Elizabeth rose to go thither.

With this being her third pregnancy and fourth child, she knew what the pains were as soon as she felt them run down her back, and she stopped well before door, laying her hand where the worst of the pain had passed and grimacing. Elizabeth shook her head. "Not so soon," she whispered. "Not until Dr. Whittling arrives."

He was not likely to arrive until the afternoon or even the evening, though, unless he had made exceptional time on the road. Elizabeth sat back down at the table and considered what she should do. Under no circumstances did she want Dr. Alderman to attend her – if it could not be Dr. Whittling then she wanted Sarah, and perhaps Sarah's mother could be summoned to help as well. If Darcy had been there, she had no doubt of his respecting and enforcing her wishes, and she thought the staff would do the same even without his presence. But Mrs. Bennet – oh, Mrs. Bennet would shriek and carry on in worry over losing another daughter, and eventually either Elizabeth or her father would capitulate, and one or the other of them would have a carriage sent to Matlock for the physician.

Jane, Mrs. Nichols, Lydia. Elizabeth recalled the pain of each woman, the screaming, the horrid screaming. She would not face that, and so the only course available to her was to wait: either until Darcy returned or it was too late to send for Dr. Alderman. She had laboured with Charles for a little less than six hours – James and George had been even longer – and so if she just waited, either the Kellys or Dr. Whittling could attend her, and Darcy would be there to ensure her wishes were enforced. So she would give it some time and then ring for Sarah, directing her maid to fetch Mrs. Kelly.

It was the best plan she could think of, and yet it was very strange to know her baby was coming and she had told no-one within the house. She sat there at the table for a little while until the pains grew worse, and then began walking in circles about her bedchamber.

"At least this is a pleasant place to walk," she murmured, chuckling to herself. She walked circles around the old carpet, now amusing herself with the thought that it was for the best it had not been replaced, for she might wear a path on it in the coming hours.

She had not been walking for a full hour when she felt water trickling down her legs, and this startled her, for it had come much faster than in the previous times she had given birth. This was accompanied by a wave of stronger pain – stronger than she could recall from bearing any of her previous children – and she realised in that moment that this baby intended to come much more quickly than her or his older brothers. Sarah could not go for her mother – Sarah was needed _now_ – and thankfully there was no chance Dr. Alderman could be fetched in time.

That thought brought her some relief but not much, for another wave of pain hit her and she staggered over to the fireplace to ring the bell. Elizabeth grasped the handle and turned it, feeling the tension of the wire within suddenly give way. The handle turned loosely in her grip and it was evident to her that the wire was no longer connected to the bells down in the service area; the installation of the new fireplace must have damaged the wire, and it had given way at the worst possible moment.

Elizabeth huffed in frustration and began to walk slowly, painfully, to her dressing-room so she could ring the bell there. She did not make it. A wave of pain like nothing she had ever known racked her body and she went down to her knees on the floor.

It was there that she bore her child, painfully and immediately.

She spent some moments gasping for air, attempting to recover from the excruciating pain – it was as though all the pain of hours had been compressed into a few minutes, and it took time for her to manage to think past the pain. Had she screamed? Had anyone heard her?

That did not matter now, she realised. What mattered was the baby, and she lifted her skirts, gasping for breath beneath her stays just as the child gave a faint cry. That was good – very good – she thought, for she had feared the child could not survive such a rapid expulsion from her body. But no, there was a wet, squirming baby.

Another boy.

She laughed, a little hysterically, but still she laughed, and began drying the infant with her petticoat and dress as best she could. Her dressing-room seemed as far away as London at that moment, and she called out, "Is anyone there? Can anyone help us?"

There was no answer. She tried again, louder this time, but knew there was every likelihood that in this part of the house and without her summoning them, there would be no servants here at this time of the day. The master and mistress's rooms had been placed for their privacy, and no architect could ever have foreseen _this_ possibility.

Elizabeth set herself the simpler goal of getting to the gaudy old chaise, crawling there as best she could with her child tucked under her arm, her whole body trembling in the shock of how quickly it had all happened, all of this made still more awkward by length of the cord still connecting the child to her.

She made it, though, and found she could lay the little boy down on her belly so long as she pulled her skirts all the way up. Finding a dry portion of them, she draped over the boy to keep him warm, and stroked his head. "It's all right, little one. All will be well. Someone will come for us eventually."

Eventually, however, did not come before the afterbirth passed, although at least it _did_ pass. This allowed her to pull the child up higher on her chest, still taking care to cover him with the dry portion of her skirts.

Just as it had begun to seem to Elizabeth that she might lay there forever with her new son, that it might be days before anyone found them, she heard the faintest sound outside her room. The sound grew louder until it was clear it was footsteps. Elizabeth hoped it was the steps of Darcy's top boots, but in that moment she did not care who saw her in this state, so long as someone came to help her.

"Is someone there?" she shouted. "Can you help us?"

The door clapped open to reveal Darcy, who looked at the scene before him and cried, "Good God, what happened?"

He did not expect a response, which was for the best. To say the baby had just come out was not entirely the truth, when Elizabeth had spent a goodly amount of time walking about the room by herself, well aware she was in labour.

Rushing over to them as he pulled off his greatcoat, he draped it over Elizabeth and the child, and she was grateful for the extra warmth; she had reached the point where she was not certain whether her trembling was caused by the shock of what had happened or the chill of the air on her exposed legs. He ran next to the bell pull and gave it a hard tug, then another, and another.

"It's broken," he stated.

"Yes, I am well aware of that!"

"I will go and get your maid. She will know what to do."

"No – no – don't leave us! Use the bell in my dressing-room, but do not go any farther. Do not leave us here all alone – please."

He was hardly gone a minute before he returned and knelt beside the chaise, placing his hand upon her head. "How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?"

"A little, but just what remains of giving birth. He was not but a minute in coming out, and I felt all the pain of hours in that one minute."

"My poor darling, to go through that, and alone – this is exactly why I did not want to leave you."

"I will be fine, and he appears fine," Elizabeth said.

"He?"

She nodded.

"Oh Elizabeth, I am so sorry."

"I am not. I did feel that the fates were teazing me when first I saw him, but that has passed. We have been lying here together getting to know one another, and I am sure I will love him every bit as much as his brothers. And perhaps this will be better for Charles."

"You have reconciled yourself to it admirably, my love."

"Just be sure you tell my mother of it when I am out of earshot," Elizabeth said, smiling faintly. "In truth, after Charles and given how quickly he came into the world, I am just grateful he seems healthy, even if he is very little."

"Ma'am?" Sarah's head peered around the doorway to the dressing-room. The sight she met with was such as to startle even Sarah, and she made a visible effort to collect herself before she said, "Well, then. Let me get some things and wash my hands, and I'll be back to help ye."

The cord binding the poor baby to the afterbirth was finally cut by Sarah, who wiped the child more thoroughly clean and then wrapped him up tight in a blanket, handing him over to his father. Then finally could Elizabeth be aided out of her dress and stays and changed into a clean nightgown and dressing-gown, feeling the simple comforts of being warm and dry, the safety of having people around her she trusted, people who would do anything to protect and help her. She endeavoured to walk over to the bed, but her legs were so unsteady Darcy had to hand Sarah the baby and pick up his wife, carrying her the rest of the way. Elizabeth settled under the covers and he laid the child down on her chest.

"You should both rest, I think," Darcy said. "You've had quite the ordeal."

Sarah had gone back over to the chaise and was examining the afterbirth. "Looks like all of it," she said, "I'll put it in a basin for Dr. Whittling to have a look at, though, just to be sure. Is there anything else I can do?"

"Will you bring her a glass of wine and then find Mrs. Reynolds? We will need to inform the household," Darcy said.

Sarah nodded and left, returning to give the wine over to him and then going off to find the housekeeper. The baby was suckling by then, so he held the wine glass and watched his wife and child.

"Darcy, my mother – she is not going to react well to this."

"I know. I will tell her. Do you want to wait to see her?"

"No – after Lydia, I know she'll worry until she sees me. But if you could impress upon her that I am very tired and she should not stay long, I would be exceedingly appreciative."

"I will. I shall send a messenger to Clareborne, as well." He kissed her forehead. "I know how you wanted a girl, Elizabeth, but we must hold to our agreement. I cannot go through this again."

"Oh, _you_ cannot go through this again?"

"I cannot watch _you_ go through this again. Your voice, calling out for help – I have never been so frightened in my life as when I heard you – and then to find you there, all alone. Oh my poor love, how you must have suffered! Was it really mere minutes?"

Elizabeth sighed. "Not entirely. I waited until my water came before I went to ring the bell. I did not want them to fetch Dr. Alderman."

"I would not have forced you to be attended by him. I know your wishes very well, as regards him," Darcy said, but then his gaze grew pained. "But I was gone. I was not here to protect your wishes."

"You were gone because you were off doing your duty, a duty we both agreed was important. I will be well, and in time we will forget the shock of how little Edward entered the world."

"Edward? You have named him, then?"

"No, _we_ have named him, I have just saved you the trouble of the conversation. It is the next logical choice, for a boy's name. I suppose Matthew or David or Andrew might be alternatives, but Edward is the name of a beloved cousin _and_ a beloved uncle, so I find it has the advantage."

He chuckled. "Indeed, it was the one upon my mind."

"Well, then we've settled that nicely."

Little Edward had finished nursing, and Elizabeth pulled the blankets up higher about the baby, then took the glass of wine from Darcy. Drinking it did help her feel a little calmer, a little less rattled by the events of the morning, although she felt it would be some time before she recovered fully from the shock. Sarah returned with Mrs. Reynolds, and the housekeeper was instructed to inform the staff of the birth, while Elizabeth's maid was to sit with her while Darcy went to inform the Bennets.

If her mother shrieked, Elizabeth did not hear it. When Mrs. Bennet did come in, it was so quietly it seemed almost as though she was walking on her tiptoes. She took up a chair and crept slowly over to where Elizabeth and Edward were lying in bed.

"Lizzy, how are you?" she whispered, seating herself gingerly. "Mr. Darcy said the birth had been a strong shock on your nerves. Oh you poor thing, here in this big house with all of these servants and going through that all alone."

"I am feeling better, mama," said Elizabeth, silently directing a great deal of love towards her husband for finding the one thing that could make Mrs. Bennet sympathetically quiet. "It was a lot of pain in a short amount of time, but with some rest I believe I shall be well."

"Is it truly another boy?" whispered Mrs. Bennet.

"It is. We have named him Edward, after Mr. Gardiner and my cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Would you like to hold him?"

Mrs. Bennet nodded, and Elizabeth gave the child over to his grandmother. "He's a dear little thing, and I am sure my brother will be honoured by the name. He's not so dear as Cate, of course, but very dear. Lizzy, however did you manage it?"

"Manage what, mama?"

"Having all of these boys. You must have done something."

"Nothing more than any other woman, I assure you. In truth I had been hoping for a girl this time, but I shall love our little Edward just the same."

"My dear, whyever should you want a daughter? Boys are much better – your eldest will inherit the estate and the rest can go off to careers and you will not need to marry them off. Not that I don't love all of my girls, of course, but it would have been a great deal easier to have a spate of boys, like you. There's less to worry over, with boys."

Elizabeth could think of no good way in which to respond to this, so she remained silent.

"I was wrong about you, Lizzy," whispered Mrs. Bennet. "Completely wrong. I was so angry when you wouldn't marry Mr. Collins. I thought he was your only chance – I thought your temper and manners were the opposite of what a young lady needs to attract a husband. Lord, how wrong I was. You had your sights set higher and you achieved them – you caught a man worth ten thousand a year and you made your place in society and you gave him four sons. Four sons! I am so proud of you, my dear."

"I – thank you, mama. I fear I must tell you, though, that I made no particular efforts to do any of these things. They just happened."

"I know, my dear child, but they happened because you are _you_. Thank goodness you didn't let me try to make you into someone else. It's clear to me Mr. Darcy loves you very much as you are – it must be lovely, to have a man so devoted to you."

Elizabeth felt a pang of sympathy for her mother, and said only, "It is."

Mrs. Bennet smiled. "I've something I want to ask of you, Lizzy. Will you look after little Cate, when it's time for her to go into society? Kitty has been such a good mother to her, but Cate will be an heiress, and she'll need someone to guide her through that world. That's your world."

"Of course I will, mama. I intend to help all of my nieces and nephews as much as I can, but you are right that Cate will need special guidance."

"Thank you, Lizzy, that puts me at ease. I don't know whether I'll be around to see it, but I know she'll do well with you guiding her. She'll find a nice husband, hopefully one who loves her so well as your Mr. Darcy does you – indeed, maybe even one of your sons." Mrs. Bennet had been holding herself to a whisper for the entire conversation, but her voice rose in excitement as she came to the idea at the end of this statement, and she looked abashed.

"Perhaps, mama, but my husband and I have a strict rule about not making matches for children in their cradles. We want all of our children to marry for love, as we did."

"Oh – yes, I suppose that's understandable," whispered Mrs. Bennet. "But a grandmother can hope."

"Hope for it, then, if you like. If Cate and one of her cousins did fall in love, I am sure we would all be supportive of the match."

"I will hope for it – I surely will. But I'll leave you now, Lizzy. You need to rest," whispered Mrs. Bennet. "He's very calm. Do you want him, or shall I put him in his cradle?"

"In his cradle, please."

Mrs. Bennet gently laid the baby down, and then looked up at her daughter. "Is there anything else I can get you, my dear? Another glass of wine? Another blanket?"

"No, mama. I have all I need, but thank you."

Mrs. Bennet nodded and crept back out of the room, her presence replaced by that of Sarah, who needed no special effort to speak softly as she said, "Mr. Darcy is downstairs writing expresses to all your family, ma'am. He said either he or I was to be with you at all times today – you won't be left alone again. I'll be quiet, though – I know you'll be wanting to rest."

"Yes, thank you, Sarah. Will you move his cradle nearer the fire?" Elizabeth asked. "I don't want him to catch a chill. Have one of the footmen help you if it is too heavy."

"It's nothing," Sarah said, carefully lifting both baby and cradle and setting them down much closer to the fire. She drew up a chair beside the cradle and extended a finger to touch the baby, speaking even more softly: "He's sure a dear little wee one."

Elizabeth had known, of course, that Sarah would not be a mother – at least while she remained in her mistress's service, which she seemed adamant about doing – but she had never felt this lack for Sarah so viscerally. Sarah would have made an excellent mother, and she would never be one. _Never say never_ , Elizabeth reminded herself. Sarah might fall in love someday, might be coaxed out of service by her heart as her younger sister Moll had been. If that day came, Elizabeth would have to let her go, even though it would be painfully difficult. Today was not a day for such worries, though, she reminded herself. She was well, her new son was well, and Sarah was here to care for her. She should not think of more beyond this.

* * *

Sarah had said that either she or Darcy would remain with Elizabeth throughout the day, to ensure she was not alone, but when Elizabeth awakened she found a third had been added to her list of companions: now it was Jane, seated by the fire and watching little Edward.

"Is he awake?" asked Elizabeth.

Jane started, and rushed over to her sister's bedside, laying her hands on Elizabeth's arm. "Oh Lizzy, thank God you are well. That must have been so frightening for you."

"It was more shocking than frightening, I think," said Elizabeth. "It all happened so quickly."

"Dr. Whittling is here, but he said so long as you were not bleeding and you were sleeping comfortably, we shouldn't wake you. He'll want to see you, though."

Elizabeth nodded. "In a little while. Let me sit with my dear Jane, first." She saw no reason to worry her sister over her own fears from Charles's appearance in the middle of the night, but she did want some time with a living, healthy Jane to reassure her that all was well with her sister.

This was, Elizabeth thought, both the gift and the curse of Lydia's death. She would never take her sisters's lives for granted again, would never presume that they would all live to an old age and die in something near their order of birth. She would always feel the duality of gratitude and worry that went with such thoughts, would seize every day with them, following her husband's philosophy with a deeper understanding of what had formed it, now that she had lived a comparable loss.

Jane was quiet until Elizabeth asked after Bess and Emma, for this was a topic upon which Jane could always speak at great length. As she talked, though, Elizabeth recalled Jane's posture above the cradle, before she had realised her sister was observing her – how very like Sarah's it had been. Jane, too, was to be deprived of this in the future; there would be no more newly born children of her own.

_As it will be for you_ , Elizabeth realised. If she and Darcy were successful in their plans, Edward and his shocking birth would be the last she ever experienced, and she ought to enjoy these moments with her infant child while they were still her own to enjoy. They would not last for her, either.

Jane invited Dr. Whittling to come in some time later, and the accoucheur entered, looking abashed.

"Mrs. Darcy, yet again I've made the wrong estimate of your due date, and I promise if you do allow me to attend you for the next, I shall come up a fortnight earlier than it seems I should."

"It is not your fault," Elizabeth said, continuing as she noticed Darcy and Sarah had replaced Jane as her attendants, "I am almost certain he was early. I had a bit of a shock, last night – I had reason to fear suddenly that someone I care about had been endangered. I look back and think now, perhaps that – roused the baby, in some way."

"'Tis possible," he said, going over to the cradle and lifting little Edward up. "He does look to be a little early, although no smaller than either of your twins, and thankfully healthier than your last."

"Yes, thank God."

"I'll need to examine you as well," he said, and when this was done: "You are very fortunate, Mrs. Darcy. In these sorts of rapid births there can often be tearing or other injury to the mother, but I do not see anything to worry me about your condition. As usual, though, I will want someone with you at all times for the first full day. I've brought Mrs. Tippet with me, to assist with the baby – you should focus on resting and feeding him."

Elizabeth nodded.

"You should also know that these quick births can be very unsettling for the mother. It is more so if it happens for her first child, but it is possible it will still be so for this one."

"I understand," said Elizabeth. She was aware, still, of a fear of being left alone and helpless with her child, and was thankful Darcy had anticipated this. Sarah saw Dr. Whittling out, Darcy remaining in the room with her. Not long after they left, the sound of Edward fussing in his cradle could be heard. He proved to be hungry, and as Elizabeth laid there with her child on her breast, she looked up at her husband and said, "You can join us, if you wish. There is room enough for three here, when one is so little."

He needed no more invitation to come up into the bed and lay down beside her, tracing his finger over the top of Edward's head as he suckled. The child finished, and was given over to Mrs. Tippet, who said she had a good, warm fire going in the dressing-room and all was ready for the baby there.

Darcy remained in bed with her after they left, until she fell back asleep. It was evening, by then, and perhaps he left to go and dine with the Bingleys, but when Elizabeth's dreams became troubled, when she found herself wandering through Pemberley, the house completely empty save her and Edward, calling out for help that did not come, it was Darcy who woke her. He was in his nightshirt, now, and pulled her into his arms.

"I am here, Elizabeth. You are not alone. I am with you. You are here and you are safe, and Edward is safe. All of our children are safe. Go back to sleep, my darling," he murmured, and she did so until Mrs. Tippet awakened her so little Edward could nurse.


	70. Part 2, Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

"March 29, 1820

"Rosings Park

"Dear mama,

"I have long thought about writing to you, but I feared you might see this as more of an olive branch than I am willing to offer. So please understand, I do not want to see you and you will not be admitted at Rosings should you come, but I am willing to correspond with you. If you find this unacceptable, I believe we must carry on as we did before, with no contact between our houses outside of the fiduciary matters handled by my steward. I understand you may not like this, but it is all I am willing to offer.

"One of the qualities of being a good Christian is forgiveness. Were I a fully good Christian I suppose I would be able to forgive you for the years I lost, but my faith is not so strong. Perhaps one day it will be. Perhaps I should bear more of the blame for those years myself, for had I taken control of my life sooner I might have known health longer. Yet I know that even if I had, you would have fought me, just as you did. It would always have been my cousins and not you, who aided me.

"If I sound bitter, know that I have attempted many drafts of this letter and I have found this to be inevitable. Maybe if I am finally able to forgive you, I will cease being bitter.

"I am otherwise happy. I have been since I married Thomas Smith. I married him because I love him, but he has been everything I could have hoped for in a husband, a leader within our community, and a master of Rosings. Last year the estate finally saw the same returns it did when papa was alive, and I am certain we could not have done it without him as master. The only thing we lack in our union is children. You should not expect them. TI have accepted that the damage to my health was too great, and we will not be so blessed. When the time comes we will choose an heir, and at that time we hope to bring the child to live with us, so we may know something of the raising of him or her. It will be our choice, but if you wish I will keep you appraised of our decision when we make it."

"Your daughter,

"ANNE"

* * *

"Remarks on the Death of Young Mothers," from _Sermons on Subjects of Interest to Good Christian Men and Women_ , by the Rev. David Stanton:

"To those left behind, there can seem to be nothing more cruel, than when God sees fit to call a young mother to His side. The death of a child is tragic, but equally so is that of the woman whose role it was to bring her children into the world, to nurture them, to form such children into good people and good Christians. When a mother is lost at an advanced age, we have at least the comfort of knowing she accomplished that most important duty she was put upon this earth to do, and left it ready for her eternal reward.

"When a young mother dies, however – perhaps even in the very act of bringing her child into the world – she leaves with her work incomplete. Yet we know God calls young mothers back to Him with goodly frequency, just as He calls children, and perhaps it is because these young mothers are to do their duty in the Kingdom of Heaven rather than here on earth. We are all children of God and we all need mothers, just as we need our Eternal Father.

"So do not be uneasy, to let these young women go. They have laboured and they have been loved and they have gone to their reward early, because they were needed by God. Tell this to their children. Honour them by ensuring their children are cared for, by ensuring _all_ of God's children are cared for.

"For as we read in 2 Corinthians 1, verses 3-4: 3 Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; '4 Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.'

"Honour this young woman we bury today by providing the comfort you yourself have received from the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit to her children, and all the children of the world, so that you may find peace in her death. Know she is at peace already as she cares for the children of Heaven, although she awaits the arrival of her own children with the deepest anticipation. The time until this reunion will seem short for her and long for those she has left behind, but it will come all the same so long as her children have followed the good Christian morals she would have taught them, had she lived."

* * *

"April 2, 1820

"London

"Dear Anne,

"I was glad to receive your letter. Like you I have written many drafts in response and I have decided it is best not to comment upon the things that displeased me. I am aware I have done things that displeased you, just as you have done things that displeased me. For my own part I ask for your forgiveness for anything you feel I did that contributed to your ill health. I know in my heart I was only ever trying to do what was best for you.

"I am glad to hear you are happy and that Rosings does well. I have heard thus from others in the neighbourhood but I am glad you have confirmed it in your own hand. I hope you will continue to be happy and pray you will not give up on children just yet. You are not too old to give up hope. Have you tried arrowroot?

"I will respect your wishes for now and keep to mere correspondence between us. I hope in the future you might change your mind. I would like to see you again, my child.

"I love you,

"MAMA"

* * *

"Remarks on the Death of Mothers of Advanced Age," from _Sermons on Subjects of Interest to Good Christian Men and Women_ , by the Rev. David Stanton:

"When a matriarch dies, she passes from this earth with the satisfaction of knowing she has done her duty. She has raised her sons or daughters to become good Christian men and women, and perhaps even done the same for her grandchildren.

"This may feel a small consolation to those she has left behind, those she has nurtured and raised, for such has been her influence over them that they feel her absence keenly, painfully. They must take heart in the grief they feel over her absence, for in her influence on them she lives on. As she has taught her children, so they will teach her grandchildren, and they will teach her great-grandchildren, until generations who know her only as a name or a lady in a portrait feel her influence. In this way, while she has risen to her own eternal reward, still she lives on, perhaps forever, upon this earth.

"Some mothers may have been preceded in death by one or more of their own children, and for them we must feel our own sadness while knowing they experience a happy reunion with a child who had been parted from them for years or even decades. Eventually all who live good Christian lives and ask God for the forgiveness of their sins shall reunite in Heaven, and we must remember this is the happy promise of our faith. Remember this when you think of her loss in grief.

"Remember particularly 1 Thessalonians 4, verses 17-18: '17 Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. 18 Wherefore comfort one another with these words.'

"As scripture says, take comfort in these words. Honour her by living your lives according to the lessons this good woman taught you, until such time as you are reunited."


	71. Part 2, Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

Georgiana had not thought of the journey to Derbyshire, when she had purchased the ship that now bore her name. In her mind, it would still be made over land, as it always had been. Yet although it was farther by sea – they must sail around both Cornwall and Wales – Matthew had done the calculations, and so long as they had fair winds and enough men to maintain a full watch overnight, the schooner Georgiana's ability to outpace even the fastest stagecoach would have them in Liverpool in two days, with less than a day overland to follow. The children certainly liked the sea portion of their journey better than being confined to hired post-chaises, and Georgiana was glad when the first of Pemberley's grounds came into view, grateful they had not been thus confined for longer.

Her daughter recognised the place once she saw the house, for she looked eagerly to her mother and said, "Is Emma and Marianne here?"

" _Are_ Emma and Marianne here, my dear. And I am not sure if they are here yet, but I believe you shall see Emma, at least, during this journey."

Neither Fitzwilliam nor Elizabeth came out to the drive, which troubled Georgiana, but as she was helping Caroline down, the Bingleys appeared to greet them.

"You're Aunty Jane," Caroline stated, gazing up at Mrs. Bingley. "You're Emma's mama. Pwease see Emma?"

"I am, Caroline," said Jane, kneeling down before her. "Emma is upstairs in the nursery with your other cousins, and I can take you to see her, if you'd like."

Caroline nodded vigorously, and was led off by Jane, Dog trotting along behind them. Georgiana gazed at Charles in concern and asked, "Where are my brother and sister?"

"In your sister's chambers," he replied. "Lizzy had the baby yesterday – it was very sudden. She is well, though, and so is the child. Another boy – Edward."

"Goodness, four boys, and a fifth as their ward. I do not think they will know much peace in their nursery."

Charles smiled faintly. "No, I suppose not. Come, let's get the rest of you inside. Darcy said you should come up and meet your new nephew whenever you arrived. You know the way, of course."

Charles was right that Georgiana knew the way to the mistress's apartment, all of Pemberley looking much as it usually did until she reached that space and gasped at how completely it had been transformed.

"Oh Elizabeth – this is so beautiful! What a lovely place to have your confinement."

"Save a broken bell pull," said Elizabeth, although she elaborated no further. She was lying in a very pretty bed of the French style, holding little Edward. Fitzwilliam had been seated in a chair beside the bed, but he rose to embrace Georgiana and then Matthew.

"You both look well. How was your journey?"

"Very pleasant," said Georgiana. "'Tis much easier to travel with children when they have the run of the ship."

"I hope you will still stay for some time, even though Edward has come early," said Elizabeth. "Would you like to hold him?"

The baby was given over to his aunt, who held him contentedly, fondly reminded of the infancy of her own children but not eager to return to those times when childbirth must precede them. The Stantons had intended to stay in the room just long enough to meet their new nephew, but Fitzwilliam must have ordered tea to be served to them there, for Henry came in with a pretty new set on a tray and proceeded to lay it out on the table by the fireplace.

They could not but partake of the refreshments, and they were seated there, sipping tea, when Henry returned with a letter, saying, "Mr. Parker said you'd want this one immediately."

It was plainly evident to anyone who could see the letter why this was so – the hand was Lord Brandon's, and the letter was sealed with black wax.

"Oh no," whispered Georgiana. She felt guilty that this was so, but it _was_ a relief to her when Fitzwilliam tore open the letter and announced,

"Aunt Catherine has died."

Several persons within the room sighed in relief, Georgiana included. Their countenances showed they shared her guilt, but they could not but be united in their feelings.

"She was looking very – worn down, I suppose, is how I would describe it, when she called upon me," said Elizabeth.

"I fear I must disabuse you of any notions of an old woman peacefully dying in her sleep," said Fitzwilliam, his eyes still on the letter. "She had an apoplexy as she was berating a maid over how the mantle in the drawing-room had been dusted."

"Oh." Elizabeth's eyes widened, but she said no more.

"Lord Brandon is arranging matters regarding her burial, in keeping with her station and what she would have wanted," said Fitzwilliam. "They will take her to Rosings and then lay her to rest at Hunsford."

"I suppose we should go there, and then we will have to go into mourning," said Georgiana, tears forming in her eyes at the thought of delaying their trip to the continent.

"You may not even be able to reach Kent in time for the burial – although I suppose I do not know how long it would take to sail there," said Fitzwilliam. "Even if you do, you would not be able to attend, Georgiana."

"True," she said, hesitantly. "But we will need to delay our travels in order to mourn her. Society will judge us if we do not."

"I think you can mourn her just as well on a ship as you can on land, and society will not know whether you had word of her death before you departed. Was it widely known you were sailing for Liverpool, when you left Portsmouth?"

"No – but I think we must give our aunt what she is due. She is our mother's sister."

Fitzwilliam gazed at her sceptically. "Before the discovery of mama's journals I would have agreed with you. I cannot say that I do now. You know she was not a good sister to mama, even beyond – the other act. Were it up to her, papa and mama would never have married, and you and I would not exist. We do not owe her anything. Leave now – well, not now, but perhaps tomorrow – and society will assume you had no knowledge of her death. We will miss having you with us for longer, but we will need to go into mourning, anyway."

Georgiana thought of her mother, how near to heartbreak her poor mother had come at aunt Catherine's hands, and from this thought it was but nothing to acquiesce to Fitzwilliam's plan.

She went up to the nursery to see how the children were settling in, and found Caroline chattering nearly nonstop about a foal that had apparently been born on the estate the previous night. Miss Fischer had taken the older boys and Bess out to see it in the morning and once they had told their cousin of these delights, it was natural that she wanted nothing more than to experience those delights for herself. Emma had not formed any enthusiasm for the morning outing, but now that it was her friend's greatest wish, she also wished to go, and so Georgiana and Jane led their daughters down the stairs – without Dog for once, for Georgiana had feared the animal might frighten the foal, and thus Dog had been unhappily shut into the nursery without her little mistress. They were met on the stairs by Mary, David, and their daughters, and rapidly the two girls had convinced Marianne to join them on the expedition.

Georgiana still knew most of the stable staff at Pemberley, and they readily directed her to the foaling box that contained the new colt. Informing the girls that they must stay standing in the doorway, Georgiana opened the stall door. The girls gasped at the first sight of the spindly legged colt, prompting the creature to run behind its mother and hide.

"You must be very quiet, girls," whispered Georgiana. "He is not so used to little girls as the ponies you know, so he will be afraid of you until he has reason to trust you."

"Yes, be quiet," stated a groom, slipping past the children and into the foaling box, where he patted the mare's neck and then went to her far side, whispering to the colt.

"He's a sensitive one," stated Marshall, who had come up behind the party of women and little girls. "Maybe the most such we've ever had. Silas, see if you can coax him around for the children to see."

"Is that Silas Metcalfe?" whispered Georgiana.

"Aye, my lady," Marshall murmured. "We hired him on as a groom. A bit odd at times, but he's a great touch with the sensitive ones. I'm that glad we have him for this one."

"I am glad to see him find a place here."

Silas coaxed the colt out from behind his mother, and the girls obeyed Georgiana's instruction perfectly, staring wide-eyed at the animal until he grew shy again and went back to hiding behind his mother. They were silent as Georgiana and Jane led them away from the stall, and even still as they left the stables, until finally Caroline whispered, "Mama can we talks now?"

"Yes, my dear, you may talk now. You did very well in being quiet."

Thus freed from the constraint they had obeyed so well, the little girls began speaking of seeing the colt in very great detail, and they were still talking of it when the adults returned them to the nursery. Georgiana inquired as to where David and Mary had gone to, wishing to greet them more properly, and learned they were in the mistress's study, which she found exceedingly odd.

It seemed less odd when finally she entered that space. Yet again she gasped at the changes that had been made, and the wallpaper – scenes of Italy – made her grateful towards Fitzwilliam for convincing her to depart for the continent, rather than stay and mourn her aunt. Mary, David, and Matthew were all inside, and they were more agreeably engaged than in talking about Lady Catherine, for Georgiana was informed the papers they were looking over were the proofs for the book of David's sermons. The proofs had been delivered just before Fitzwilliam's express about little Edward's birth, and with two children in the carriage occupying their attention, David and Mary had hardly had a chance to view them until now.

"Mr. Murray followed my directions admirably – thank you again for seeing him on my behalf," said David.

"It was nothing. I was glad you finally chose to publish them, and I hope they will be but the first set," Matthew replied.

"I am not yet ready to be thinking of any other sets. If these do not sell well, Mary and I stand to lose a considerable sum."

"I have no doubt they will sell well enough to see you through five hundred copies, David. There are any number of country clergymen who do not read their own sermons and will be glad of a new work of this kind, and I intend as well to recommend them to my colleagues in the navy, for they have stood me in good stead all these years. If anything, I think you should be decided as to what you wish to do if they sell out quickly."

David shook his head. "You are more optimistic than I."

In truth, Georgiana thought, it was merely that Matthew was richer than his brother – half-brother – and the loss of more than a hundred pounds would be more harmful on David's household than it would be on Matthew's. David had not sought to make a great profit on the volume; his intent had been merely to spread his words more broadly, but he would feel a loss if it occurred.

"Compared to what I expect will be in – in our father's book – I have every expectation of its success. It will be the failure of his work that we should prepare for."

Georgiana felt the pain of the secret they kept from Mary and David, but they were not authorised to share it. She felt still more the strangeness of Matthew's relationship with his older brother; David was such a good person it was difficult _not_ to like him, and yet in Matthew's case it was natural that he feel some jealousy, some sense of unfairness in the way the two of them had been treated as boys. Were David not so good, Georgiana thought, it was likely Matthew would not wish to have to do with any of his brothers.

"I do not intend to help him if it fails, and he would not take a shilling from you," David said. "He has an income again, and he must learn to live with the consequences of his choices. It took me far too long to come to that stance, I know, but I have come to it."

They were silent, after this, each person in the room plainly thinking about Mr. Stanton. Of all of them, he had affected Georgiana the least: she had never suffered at his hands, and yet as her husband had suffered the most, still she felt the pain of his tyrannical presence, as well as the lightness they all felt to be removed from it.

David returned to paging through the papers in his hand, stopping and smiling faintly. "My remarks on the death of young mothers," he said. "I first wrote them with mama in mind, although they have been altered over the years. How I wish she would have lived."

"I know how hard it is to lose a mother at a young age," said Georgiana. "Perhaps in her situation, though, it was better for her to go to a peaceful place."

David nodded. "That was strong on my mind when I wrote this."

"May I read it?" asked Georgiana, and it was given over to her. In reading it, she was in agreement with Matthew's confidence that the sermons would sell well. There was a certain malleability in the words that made them just as easy to apply to Marianne Stanton, Lydia Wickham, or Lady Anne Darcy, and when the party in the study began to break up, Georgiana slipped away to the gallery.

Papa had been intending the Darcys to have a new portrait painted, all four of them together, but then mama had died and that had been the end of these plans. Georgiana wished her father had been less dilatory about the portrait, both because she wished there was something showing them all together as a family, but more because she wanted to see her mother more as she had been during the brief four years Georgiana had known her. Since this was not available to her, Georgiana gazed at what was left of her mother, the younger woman covered in paint and powder, her countenance made all the more enigmatic by them.

She viewed the portrait differently, now that she had read her mother's journals. Lady Anne's countenance still _looked_ enigmatic, but now Georgiana understood what thoughts had been running beneath the noble exterior. It had crossed her mind for a moment when they had been talking about Marianne Stanton that it was not at all certain that Marianne had gone to a peaceful place; as Lord Stretford said, it was dependent upon whether God was as forgiving of sins as they hoped. This was not so for Lady Anne, though. She had been a good, quiet, gentle and _almost_ invariably obedient woman who had struggled at times but ultimately led a fairly average life, one filled with love for her husband and children. She had witnessed a great sin, it was true, but Georgiana had no doubts of meeting her again someday, so long as Georgiana herself could live a good Christian life. The same could not be said for Marianne Stanton, and still less for Lady Catherine.

"I thought I might find you here," said Matthew. "Although it does not follow that I was able to find this room with any degree of efficacy. I cannot imagine growing up in a house this vast."

Georgiana chuckled. "It was the only thing I ever knew. But did you not spend time at your uncle's estate?"

"My uncle tends to entertain more in town, so he has kept whole wings of Rutherford closed off – the portion of the house I knew as a boy was much smaller than Pemberley," Matthew said. He gazed at her carefully. "Now that you have had some time to think on it, are you still in agreement with what Fitzwilliam proposed, that we depart for the continent immediately? If you feel differently, we might still sail around to Kent."

"No, I am still in agreement with Fitzwilliam. My allegiance is to her," Georgiana said, motioning towards the painting.

Matthew studied it for some moments, and then said, "I wish we had a portrait of my mother. It seems commonly known that she was a handsome woman, but I cannot remember her distinctly."

"Have you forgiven her, your mother? We've not spoken of her in a long time."

"I have. In truth she was the easier one to forgive."

"Because she had already passed?"

"In part, but mostly because there is a softness in a man's heart towards his mother, and it takes much to harden it."

"Not just a man's," said Georgiana. "I hope I never damage that softness in my own children."

"I do not think you have the capacity for that, dearest." He reached down and clasped her hand. "And beyond that, you are going to take your children on grand adventures. What child could not delight in that?"

" _We_ are going to take our children on grand adventures."

"Yes, my dearest, but 'tis you who bought the ship, and so I intend to give you all of the credit. I am but her captain."

* * *

Reminiscing about her mother recalled Georgiana to the journals in her trunk, and she went to her bedchamber and gathered them up, knocking softly on Elizabeth's door and entering when Fitzwilliam called out that she should come in.

"I brought these back, to return them to mama's closet," she said.

Elizabeth was lying in bed with little Edward in her arms, and she smiled softly as she looked up and said, "Are you entirely certain you do not wish to keep them yourself?"

"Nay, now that I have read them, I am even more certain they belong here, where they were written," said Georgiana. "I have copied out some favourite passages, and if I know they shall always be here, if I wish to read them in their entirety again."

"Were – were you pleased with what you read?" asked Fitzwilliam. "Aside from the difficult parts with aunt Catherine, of course."

"I was," said Georgiana, her eyes filling with tears. "I am glad she wrote them, and left them. I like to think she left them for us, even if we were not her purpose for writing them in the first place. I am glad to know her so much better."

"I think perhaps I should like to take them, then, before they are returned to the closet," Fitzwilliam said. "I have read some passages, but not all. It is time for me to know her as the two of you know her."

Georgiana handed the stack of journals to her brother and then embraced him. "You will like knowing her in this way, Fitzwilliam, I am sure of it."

There was another thing Georgiana had wished to do in memory of her mother while she was at Pemberley, and after she left Elizabeth's bedchamber, she went down to the music room, halting in the doorway to gaze upon the instruments within. A new Clementi grand and a fine harp had replaced Georgiana's old instruments, both of them now at Stanton Hall, but the one constant was the harpsichord. Georgiana had never attempted to play it, and could not even recall its being played. Yet it had sat here through the years, with nary a proposal that it should be removed; it was a part of the history of the house, and that of its former mistress.

Georgiana wondered if it was in tune. There was no reason it should be thus, and yet it did not seem impossible that Fitzwilliam should have seen to its maintenance along with the other instruments, that he should consider any such item of the household something to be kept in good working order. When she seated herself and played a tentative scale, it sounded well enough, although also strange to her. She had been so accustomed to the pianoforte that she expected such sounds to emanate when each key was struck, and to hear crisp, stiff trills instead was very strange.

She continued playing despite the strangeness, attempting her favourite Scarlatti sonatas and growing more comfortable with the instrument. As it began to feel and sound more natural, a strange calmness overcame her, a peaceful feeling that stayed with her as she played the final notes of her fifth sonata and rose from the bench, finding she had gained an audience, and not the one she might have expected.

"That sound brings back such memories for me," said Mrs. Bennet, who had seated herself on the settee nearest the doors to the yellow drawing-room. "I hope you do not mind my listening."

"No, of course not."

"'Tis not your usual instrument, is it?"

"No – I was – reminiscing. Thinking about my mother."

"She died when you were very young, did she not?" asked Mrs. Bennet.

Georgiana nodded, still too ensconced in that feeling of peaceful calm to become teary at the thought, until Mrs. Bennet said,

"I wish mothers and daughters never had to be parted until the natural time. You should still have your mother, and I should still have my Lydia."

Georgiana's eyes did fill with tears at this, and she went over to sit beside Mrs. Bennet on the settee, embracing the woman and sharing in her wish. Yet Georgiana's mother was much longer gone than Lydia, and the calmness easily returned to Georgiana's soul. She felt herself fill with love for her own mother, felt fondness rather than sadness towards Lady Anne, and hoped Mrs. Bennet would someday feel the same when she thought of Lydia.


	72. Part 2, Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

Lady Catherine de Bourgh returned to Kent in a hearse pulled by six black horses with magnificent black feathers quivering about their bridles. All of Hunsford village turned out to see this, as had most of the villages on the great lady's path. This had less to do with her and more to do with its being a tremendous spectacle. So they turned out of their houses and remembered to doff their caps and otherwise stood staring as the morbid equipage came past.

Anne watched it come up the drive to Rosings silently, Thomas standing beside her. Her Fitzwilliam relations had outpaced the coach and were elsewhere within the house. Anne was glad they had come; she understood it was far more for her than for the woman in the hearse, and she was grateful; they were all going through the motions of grief more than actually feeling any grief.

Lady Catherine was to lie at Rosings overnight before the men attended her to the church the next morning, when she would be laid to rest atop Anne's father in the de Bourgh family vault. Hired men carried the coffin, but Thomas left her to go with her Fitzwilliam relations and hold the massive pall as they brought her into the entrance-hall and then the drawing-room, laying the coffin down on the stools that had been sent ahead by the undertaker. Anne turned so that she could watch all of this, and when it was done everyone looked over at her, nodded or bowed, and then left, seeming to think she wanted some time alone with the body of her mother, to say her good-bye.

Anne felt no need to say good-bye. She was glad of the brief correspondence she'd had with her mother, but more because it had proven to her that Lady Catherine would be as she always was. It would not matter if they exchanged fifty letters rather than one: Anne's mother would not change. She was glad of that one letter, though, of knowing she had attempted _something_ while her mother was still alive. Thomas had been right in that. If Lady Catherine had passed without receiving Anne's letter and then sending a response, Anne would always have been filled with regrets over not attempting some manner of reconciliation.

Now her mother was gone, and she had no regrets. They would lay her to rest tomorrow and with her most of Anne's thoughts on her. She might still spare some thoughts towards Lady Catherine, might find with the passage of time that she was capable of forgiveness. Perhaps it might come in the six months of mourning society now dictated she take. Perhaps it would never come.

Anne was not sure whether she had spent what the others would consider to be the appropriate length of time there with her mother, but she had no desire to linger any longer. Thomas was standing in the entrance-hall, awaiting her, and he took her into an embrace.

"Are you well, Anne?"

"I am. I am at peace with her death, and she is – wherever she is. I am grateful to you, though, for making me feel I would not be judged if I wrote to her."

He said nothing, merely kissing the top of her head.

* * *

Lady Catherine was left there in the drawing-room, gaining a lesser measure of visitors than she might have felt herself due. Herbert and Maria Ramsey came to pay their respects, as did the Averys, and in the latter couple's case Anne was certain they came out of respect for the Smiths, rather than their mother.

The only event that evening came when the long and heretofore fruitless search for Lady Catherine's will finally ended, the document discovered by Edward in a gaudy old secretaire Anne had ordered stored away in the attic, never realising what it held.

They all gathered in Thomas's study to learn what it contained, and it was decided that as Edward had found it, he might as well read it:

"'The Last Will and Testament of The Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Rosings Park in Kent, daughter of the Eleventh Earl of Brandon, written this twenty-eighth of February, 1817. I name as my executor Fitzwilliam Darcy, esq. of Pemberley in Derbyshire.' – Darcy won't like that at all, but I suppose one of us was going to get stuck with it, and he's been on slightly better terms with her."

He continued on through some meagre bequests to charity, a surprising 200 pounds for Herbert Ramsey and a less surprising 1,000 pounds for Fitzwilliam Darcy, and then concluded with, "The remainder of my wealth and worldly possessions I leave to Anne de Bourgh, of Rosings Park in Kent."

Anne could not say she had wanted this, but she had in some way expected it. Estranged from much of her family and too concerned with what society would think to do anything rash, she had really been the only logical choice for her mother to leave the bulk of her fortune and possessions to, and in truth given her mother's tendency to spend most of her jointure, it was entirely possible that the amount that would remain for Anne was less than what she had left for Darcy. That amount may as well have been called what it was – a payment for services rendered, in acting as the executor of the lady's will.

Anne watched from the drawing-room window again the next morning, as her mother left Rosings for the last time. Aunt Ellen and Marguerite had asked if she wished for their presence or would rather be alone, and she had requested they stay with her. The hearse drew off in full ceremony, preceded by hired mutes, the male relations Lady Catherine had shunned towards the end of her lifetime forming the majority of her pallbearers. When they reached the end of the drive, Anne turned back towards the room and went to a seat by the fire.

Lady Ellen gazed at her in concern for some moments, finally saying, "Do not be afraid to cry, Anne. She was still your mother."

Anne's mind said she had cried all of her tears over her mother, but her body reacted otherwise. Lady Ellen moved to sit on the sofa beside her niece and take her up in an embrace, and Anne cried all the more, not for the mother she had lost, but for the mother she'd never had. She cried because she was grateful for her aunt, grateful for everyone in her life who was not her mother, and most particularly grateful for Thomas. When finally her tears lessened, she understood that what she had thought was peace before was but a fraught notion of it; she understood it would take time, but as the days passed she had hopes of finding a true peace in the absence of her mother, and the love of her family.


	73. Part 2, Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

Matthew had said their children's adventures would further endear them to their mother, but this was decidedly not Caroline's opinion of matters when she was told she would need to leave her friends the next day. Upon Georgiana's telling her this, she launched into such a monstrous tantrum that it was immediately clear she would not be coaxed into being a young lady by her mother's firmness of tone – she cared not what her mother thought, for Georgiana was the one requiring her to leave her friends. Georgiana and Mrs. McClare decided they ought to just let the storm run itself out, and set instead to packing the children's trunk.

The storm did pass, as they inevitably do in children of Caroline's age, and Georgiana led her daughter out to the carriage with the promise that they should go to the stables and see the baby colt again before they got into the post-chaise. Georgiana reminded Caroline that she must be very quiet to avoid spooking the foal, and slowly opened the door to the stall. The colt was lying on the straw beside the feet of his mother, who stood without moving in that knowing way of broodmares. Upon seeing this, Caroline crouched down so she was nearer a level with the colt, and the two of them stared silently at each other for some minutes.

"Storm Petrel," murmured Fitzwilliam, behind Georgiana. "I have great hopes for him – Hazel was Peregrine's mother. We'll need to bring him along slowly, though. He is even more sensitive than his sister."

"I wish we could have stayed longer. Caroline would have loved to see him turned out for the first time, I am sure," said Georgiana. "Of course, that is not the only reason I wish we could have stayed longer."

"I wish it, too, but I understand it is important to you and Matthew – to be able to travel. I hope we might see you back at Pemberley for Christmas, though."

"I would like that very much, and I am sure Caroline will like it still more. By then William and Charles might be of an age to play together," Georgiana said. "And perhaps next year, or the year following, you all might come with us, to the continent. We have ample room for you and Elizabeth and all of the boys. It could be your chance to finally take a grand tour."

"I would like that very much, to finally make up for missing our chance to go to Malta. Travelling overland with five young boys would not be my idea of an enjoyable trip, but on your yacht I think it would be far easier."

"Let us plan on it, then. I would like to finally show you some of – some of my naval world, I suppose I should say."

"And I would like to see it."

Caroline was still gazing intently at the colt, and concerned her daughter might do so for far longer than they could afford – the Stantons wanted to reach Liverpool before nightfall – Georgiana whispered, "Caroline, my dear, I think Dog must be missing you. She has been a good Dog and she is in the post-chaise already and I bet she is wondering where you have gone to. Will you come with me to see her?"

"Yes, mama," Caroline whispered back.

The three of them walked back towards the house, to the pair of carriages in the drive. Caroline was lifted up into one by her mother, and immediately commenced snuggling with Dog. Georgiana turned and embraced her brother, saying, "We'll see you at Christmas, then."

"Yes, at Christmas."

* * *

Elizabeth had felt badly that she was not there in the drive to see her brother and sister off, but Edward's birth had taken a much greater toll on her than the births of her other children. She had been horrified by the lengths of Georgiana's labours, but now she understood that it was possible for childbirth to be too fast as well as too slow, and to this was added the need to nurse her child overnight, something poor Mrs. Nichols had almost always spared her from needing to do.

She remained in her bedchamber, in the days that followed the Stantons's departure, grateful many times over that she had redecorated the space so favourably – save the bell-pull, which she cursed whenever she thought of it. She was grateful as well for Darcy's presence; he was often with her during the day and ensured the presence of either Jane or Sarah when he was not, and he remained with her at night. It was no small thing for a man who had his own very fine bedchamber to do so when Mrs. Tippett was waking her mistress several times during the night to nurse her child. Yet as Elizabeth's strange dreams continued even through her exhaustion, she was thankful for his immediate presence there in the bed with her, reassuring her that all was well, reminding her that she would never again be alone and helpless.

She had not gone up to the nursery since Edward's birth, but the boys had all been brought down to meet their brother and future nursery-mate. Elizabeth had been a bit concerned for George Darcy, who seemed more quiet and withdrawn even than usual, and this was confirmed for her when Miss Fischer came down and asked to speak with her, saying he had become listless in his studies – extremely unusual for him – and Miss Fischer feared lack of attention from his parents might be the cause.

"Oh, the poor little dear. Send him down with a book of fairy-tales and let him read to me."

Miss Fischer did as she was bade and soon she returned with George, standing behind him in the doorway.

"Good afternoon, my darling boy. I am sorry I have not been up to see you, but sometimes after mamas have babies it takes them many days before they feel better."

George nodded, but said nothing.

"I have found it very dull to just be lying here, though. You know what I would like more than anything? I would like for you to come up here in bed with me and read me some of your fairy-tales. Would you do that for me?"

He nodded so vigorously Elizabeth felt tears form in her eyes, and it was but the work of moments for him to run over to the bed and clamber up beside her, opening his book and saying, "'Puss in Boots.' It's one of my favourites. Puss is the most clever cat, mama."

"I'm sure I will like it very well, then."

George read her two stories complete and was beginning on his third when Darcy entered the room. He murmured to Sarah that she should leave them and then sat down at the table by the fireplace, watching them quietly. When George had finished this story, Darcy said, "You read that very well, George."

This startled his son, whose place beneath the canopy meant that Darcy's entrance had not been noticeable to him. Once the surprise had passed from his face, it was replaced by what seemed a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment.

"Would you like to read another, George? Or would you rather have a snuggle with mama?"

George burrowed into her side almost immediately after she asked this, and this was all the answer Elizabeth was to receive – or needed. Darcy drew his chair up closer to the bed, watching them.

"George will not need a set of journals to fully understand his mother's love for him," he said, softly.

"That is good, for I do not keep journals," Elizabeth replied. Her tone was light, but her gaze was sympathetic. "Miss Fischer said he had been listless in his studies. We thought a little attention would do him good."

"I think you were both right, and given George is rather like myself I think worry for _you_ formed a goodly part of his listlessness. I'll take the boys all out for a long ride tomorrow, and then perhaps each of them separately, in the following days. While you rest, I can give them a greater share of attention."

He had been holding a letter in his hand, but it had taken until now for Elizabeth to notice it.

"What is it you have there?"

"Another letter from Lord Brandon. Lady Catherine has been laid to rest, and they have located her will." He sighed. "She has named me as her executor."

"Oh. Well then you cannot be taking all of the children out for rides, can you? You will have to go to Kent."

"I am not going to Kent."

"To town, then?"

"I am not going anywhere. I am needed here, by my family. I will manage what I can with correspondence and attorneys in town, and whatever cannot be managed that way will simply have to wait."

"I do not want you to feel you are shirking your duty for us."

"I will admit that it is easier to do this because it is Lady Catherine. As I told Georgiana, my allegiance is to our mother, not her," he said. "But above even my mother, my duty, my allegiance, my love, is for you, Elizabeth, the mother of my own children. There is no one and no thing that could tear me from your side at such a time."

Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears, for she had been fearing the absence of his presence.

He took up her hand and kissed it firmly. "You are the greatest thing in my life, my dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. I am not going anywhere. Not while you need me."

"I am grateful, and I love you – so very much." These were insufficient words to communicate the tremendous fullness of her heart, but she gazed into his eyes and was certain he knew.

* * *

That night Elizabeth dreamt, as she often did, that she was wandering through Pemberley with little Edward in her arms, searching for someone to help her, searching even just for the presence of another person within the house. _Yet every room she entered was empty, every door a disappointment. Finally, she thought she would go to the stables; there she found horses, but still no people. In desperation, she thought to try the Temple of Diana, and no sooner had she thought of it than she was standing before the doors to the building. She opened them, and there was everyone, to her great relief._

" _Elizabeth! There you are," stated Darcy. "I was about to go look for you – we are ready to begin the picnic."_

" _I was looking for help, for Edward."_

" _He needs no help. Look at him, he is perfectly well."_

_Elizabeth looked down, and instead of the damp, hours-old newborn she had carried through Pemberley, Edward was now plainly a few days old and quite contently nestled within the blankets in Elizabeth's arms._

" _Here, why do you not give him over to Mrs. Nichols, and come and sit down," said Darcy._

" _But Mrs. Nichols is dead!"_

" _She is not – she is right there, with the children."_

_Perplexed – for some reason she had been certain Mrs. Nichols was dead – Elizabeth handed her son over to the nurse and smiled deeply to her. "I am so glad to see you, Mrs. Nichols."_

" _Thank ye, ma'am."_

_Elizabeth sat down at the table and found her parents as well as all of her sisters and their husbands there, save Mr. Wickham. But Lydia was there, and Elizabeth recalled believing with some certainty that she had been dead as well. But that was impossible – dead women did not sit down at the table with their family, making quick work of one of Cook's tarts._

" _I am so glad to see you, Lydia," Elizabeth said._

" _La, Lizzy, you knew I would come to visit you eventually," Lydia said, turning her attention to a slice of cake._

_Darcy made up a plate for her, but Elizabeth sat for some time without eating, watching all of her family there together, filled with love for them and yet still feeling a lingering disbelief about the presence of Lydia and Mrs. Nichols. Finally, she speared a forkful of water-cress sallad and brought it to her mouth._

And promptly awakened. It all came rushing back to her, then: Mrs. Nichols was dead; Lydia was dead. Elizabeth turned to face Darcy and found him sleeping soundly. She sighed, but then recalled his words about such dreams, that they were a little journey the souls of the departed were allowed, to visit their loved ones and give some comfort. She recalled those moments of enjoyment, in the dream Temple of Diana, recalled the presences of the women she had lost from her life, and felt a sense of peace.

The dream had been a gift, and she hoped she might be blessed with others, in the future. Yet as Elizabeth watched the face of the man sleeping before her, she understood it was not the only gift she had been blessed with. Health was a gift. Life was a gift. Love was a gift. Elizabeth was grateful, and her heart was full.

**+END+**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're finally to the end! Many many thanks to all of you who've read this far and offered your comments and feedback. Seeing your reactions as readers helps make me a better writer, and I am immensely grateful to you!


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